Without another backward glance he got into the coach and drove off.
The clip clop of his horses' hooves seemed to ring in Sylvia's ears long after his coach had turned the corner and disappeared…
*
"Oh, being engaged must suit you, my dear! You look perfectly splendid."
Sylvia, in a shimmering pink voile dress, bobbed a curtsey to Lady Lambourne.
"You made quite an impression on my god-daughter, Charity," continued Lady Lambourne with a twinkle. "You were almost the sole topic of her letters for a while."
Sylvia flushed. "Is…is Charity here?"
"Goodness me, no. You can never prise Charity away from the countryside. She's quite the little hermit, you know."
Sylvia would have liked to ask about Lord Farron but the Count was at her side.
Neither the Duchess nor Sylvia's step-sisters had cared to discuss Lord Farron's visit to the Belham house that afternoon. The Duchess had brushed the topic aside when Sylvia mentioned it. It had been an inopportune visit and she had had to let him know so. Now, would Sylvia please concentrate on choosing a colour for her sisters' dresses, or had she quite forgotten they were to be her matrons of honour?
Sylvia did not venture to bring the subject up again.
All that mattered was that Lord Farron was in London.
Surely she would see him that evening at his godmother's party?
The Duchess, Edith and Charlotte all exclaimed at the sound of music striking up in the ballroom. Though there were fewer guests here tonight than there had been at the annual ball, Lady Lambourne had still provided a full orchestra.
"One does not reach such a venerable age every day," she exclaimed.
"And may I ask exactly how venerable that might be?" smiled the Count.
"Certainly not, you wicked, wicked man!" cried Lady Lambourne, smacking his arm with her fan. "But if you are not averse to leading such a grandmama onto the floor, do offer me a dance during the evening. I want to find out all about you, since you are snaffling up one of the prettiest girls of the season."
The Count bowed. "With great pleasure, ma'am."
Lady Lambourne moved on to other guests. The Count led the Belham women into the ballroom.
Sylvia's eyes flickered quickly over the dancing couples. He was not one of them! She was almost glad. If he had been one of them, it could only have been because he was dancing with some other young lady!
She agreed to a waltz with the Count. His fingers pressed hard into her back until she almost winced. She would not meet his eye. She was relieved that he had promised the second dance to Edith.
The Duchess and Charlotte had partners. Before Sylvia should find herself asked to dance by anyone else, she slipped out of the ballroom.
She wandered through the house, ostensibly without purpose, yet always alert for a sight of Lord Farron.
He was not in the drawing room with the ladies nor in the library with the gentlemen. He was in none of the corridors. At last, heart beating expectantly, she walked out into the garden. Perhaps he was actually waiting for her here!
But the garden lay silent and empty under the cloudy night sky.
Disappointed, Sylvia strolled along the terrace and re-entered the house through a different French window.
This was the room where the drinks were being served. A large, silver bowl of punch sat on a table.
Lord Farron was coming away from the table with a glass of punch in his hand.
Happily, Sylvia moved towards him. She had almost reached his side when he glanced her way. Recognition flared in his eyes, but before she could even so much as raise her hand in greeting, an expression of such utter coldness, such icy indifference, fell on his face that she was stalled in her tracks.
"L..Lord Farron," she murmured.
He bowed – muttered, "Lady Sylvia" coldly – and moved on.
Sylvia stood, stunned. Her eyes followed Lord Farron as he joined the company of a trim, elegant woman with coils of jet black hair. He handed this woman the glass of punch that he had procured and her eyes flashed as she thanked him. Sylvia stepped back in dismay as she saw the woman put a hand on Lord Farron's arm.
She turned and stumbled back out onto the terrace and down the steps to the garden. She ran all the way down to the fountain and stood there panting, staring into the dark water.
What had she done to make him greet her so coldly, so cruelly? She had so hoped they might continue to be friends, even after her marriage. She had never, she was sure, betrayed that she felt anything other than friendship for him. So why should he now so spurn her?
Miserable and bewildered, she hardly registered that the weather had changed and the air was now growing chill. It was only when she found herself shivering violently that she reluctantly returned to the house.
She almost crept through the rooms, convinced that everyone had noticed Lord Farron's cold rejection of her. She wished she could disappear into some mouse-hole or coal scuttle!
"Sylvia!"
It was Edith.
"Sylvia, I'm leaving. I've ordered a separate carriage. If you wish to come with me and stay at my house tonight meet me in a few minutes at the front door."
Edith sailed off without another word.
Sylvia hurried to the ballroom. She must tell Mama and Charlotte and the Count that she was leaving with Edith.
But the Duchess and Charlotte were spinning merrily around on the floor with their respective partners. The Count was nowhere to be seen.
Sylvia tried desperately to catch the eye of either the Duchess or Charlotte but they whirled on obliviously.
Sylvia waited for a few seconds hoping the music would end, but it seemed to go on and on.
At this rate Edith would leave without her.
She decided to look for the Count. She suspected that he might be in the library, smoking. He was indeed there, playing cards. She hesitated, unwilling to approach. Suddenly she heard the music in the ballroom end. There came the sound of scattered applause. Now was her chance. Turning on her heels she ran all the way back and reached the Duchess and Charlotte as they were leaving the floor.
"I'm going home with Edith," Sylvia panted.
"You're a strange creature, I've hardly seen you dance a single step," commented the Duchess.
"I…don't feel…well," said Sylvia truthfully.
"Oh, go if you must," said the Duchess. I will inform the Count."
Sylvia kissed the Duchess and Charlotte quickly and hurried to the front door.
The door was wide open and a footman stood at the top of the steps.
Edith's carriage was just drawing away from the kerb.
"Stop!" cried Sylvia, rushing down the steps. Too late! The horses lifted their sprightly legs and the carriage bowled off down the street. The footman regarded Sylvia curiously as she came slowly back up the stairs.
"Did you want your cloak, m'lady?" he asked.
"Thank you, no, I'll be leaving later now."
Sylvia felt she should tell the Duchess that she had not left with Edith after all, but at that moment another waltz struck up. It was no use – the Duchess and Charlotte would be back on the dance floor. She would wait until later. She knew her step-mother was enjoying herself and would not want to leave before midnight.
Sylvia wandered up the wide staircase, seeking somewhere quiet where she could rest unobtrusively. One or two ladies passed her on their way down, their faces bright with freshly applied rouge.
Sylvia pushed open a door and found herself in the boudoir set aside for the ladies as a place to refresh their make-up and hair. There was nobody here but she was sure someone would be up sooner or later. She crossed the boudoir and went through another door. She found herself in a pretty sitting room. A fire was burning merrily in the grate and there was a huge sofa drawn up against the opposite wall.
The sofa looked most inviting.
Sylvia sank onto it thankfully. She curled up and lay down, her head on one of the cu
shions. It was peaceful and warm here. If she just thought about that…about being so peaceful and warm…perhaps she would manage to forget that icy gaze cast upon her by Lord Robert Farron of Farron Towers…
*
Sylvia stirred and stretched and opened her eyes. A moment later she sat up, alarmed.
The fire in the grate was out and the room was chill. The house seemed as silent as the grave. No music, no voices, no carriage wheels outside.
A huge, blank moon leered in at the window.
Sylvia hurried to the door and opened it. The boudoir was empty. The purses and shawls that had been scattered there earlier were all gone.
The wide staircase was in darkness.
Down the stairs flew Sylvia, feeling like a stowaway on an abandoned ship. She listened in the hallway below for voices. Nothing!
She heard the sound of footsteps approaching and turned just as the footman appeared in the hall. He looked surprised and even suspicious to see Sylvia.
"My lady," he said with a bow.
"W..what time is it?" asked Sylvia nervously.
"It's three o'clock in the morning, my lady. I'm waiting for the last of the guests to depart."
Relief swept over Sylvia. "Oh! There are some people here still?"
"A few gentlemen, my lady. Playing cards. Lady Lambourne has retired."
"All the ladies have left? The Duchess of Belham and…and Lady Charlotte?"
"All departed, my lady."
Sylvia realised that the Duchess and Charlotte had left without her, because she had told them that she was leaving with Edith.
What should she do? She had no wish to disturb Lady Lambourne at this hour.
"Is…the Count von Brauer still here?' she asked at last.
The footman regarded her coolly before replying. "He is, my lady. You will find him in the library."
Sylvia was cold. She asked for her cloak and the footman brought it to her. Then she set off for the library.
The doors were wide open and she heard the murmur of low male voices from the corridor as she approached. She hesitated and then stepped slowly into the fug of smoke and whiskey tainted air.
The Count sat with three other gentlemen. They were immersed in a game of cards. An empty whiskey bottle stood at the Count's elbow.
Sylvia was about to start forward, when she caught sight of a tall figure lounging at the window.
Lord Farron!
She heartily wished he were not here, but supposed he had felt obliged to remain up with those of his god-mother's guests who had not yet departed.
She stepped forward into the light and was uncomfortably aware of Lord Farron's eyes upon her as she approached the card table.
"C..Count von Brauer. It is I, Sylvia."
The Count's head swung up. "Wha' the devil? I was told you'd gone home with Edith."
"There was a mistake. I was left behind. I would like to go home now."
"Oh, would you?" sneered the Count. "Well, I'm doing too well here – "
"Now be a sport," interposed one of the other gentlemen at the table. "Take the little lady home."
"Just 'cos you're losing, Tyndale!" roared the Count. "I won't be – cajoled. D'ye hear? You wait – over there – my girl!
With that, the Count pushed Sylvia towards one of the fireside chairs. She almost fell, but one of the players put out a hand to steady her. Humiliated and helpless, she made her way over to the fireplace and sat down. She stared resolutely into the flames. She would not look at Lord Farron and supposed that he similarly would not look at her.
After a few minutes she was aware of someone leaving the room. She glanced up in time to see Lord Farron passing through the door.
Five minutes later the Count let out a shout of rage and slammed his cards down.
"Dash it, she's brought me bad luck !" he cried. He rose and glowered at Sylvia. "Suppose I might as well take you home, since you've done for me here."
Sylvia rose, trying not to tremble before him. The Count came over and took her elbow roughly. Then, grunting a churlish farewell to the other gentleman, he propelled her from the room.
The footman stood waiting in the hallway.
"You – go fetch me my cloak," cried the Count. The footman hurried off. The Count turned to Sylvia, who shrank from his black gaze.
"I'll teach you – madam – not to ruin a fellow's game. See if I don't," he snorted.
The footman returned with his cloak and the Count flung it over his shoulders.
"I've called up your coach, sir," he said.
"Good, good," said the Count. He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket and handed the footman a coin. Then he pushed Sylvia out of the front door and down the steps.
Neither he nor Sylvia was aware of the figure watching from the dark of the unlit stairway.
This figure now descended the stairs.
"Your coach is waiting outside, sir," said the footman. "Just along the street, as you ordered."
"Thank you," replied Lord Farron simply, before following Sylvia and the Count out into the cold London night.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Count sat opposite Sylvia in the coach. His head lolled on his shoulders but whenever he raised it to stare at Sylvia, his eyes were baleful.
Sylvia did not know what to say or do. Above even the clatter of the horses' hooves and the rattle of the coach wheels, she could hear the Count's heavy, angry breath.
"I…am sorry you lost at cards, sir. Truly I am," she said at last.
The Count snarled. "A thousand pounds! That's what I lost! A thousand pounds!"
"That is a great deal to lose," admitted Sylvia.
The Count regarded Sylvia for a moment and then shifted forward on his seat so that he was leaning across the space between them.
"How you going to make it up to me? Huh?"
Sylvia sat very still. "H..how do you mean, sir?"
"How do I mean?" The Count smirked and laid a hand on Sylvia's knee. "Why, how do you think I mean, madam?"
Sylvia drew in her breath. The Count was taking inconceivable liberties with her. She pushed his hand away and moved further along the seat. She wondered fleetingly if she had ever been alone with him for even a second in the past…the past that she could not remember. Then she drove the thought from her mind. Her stepmother would never have allowed such a thing, not without a chaperone. It was pure accident that she was alone with him tonight.
It was for this very same reason, that she never for one second imagined there might be a connection between Count Von Brauer and the events of that 'lost' night, when Lord Farron and Charity rescued her. She would never have visited the Count without informing her parents, who would naturally have insisted on a chaperone.
Much as she recoiled from the Count, it never occurred to her that he was a man capable of luring her with falsehoods to his lair.
The Count gave his moustache an almost vicious twist. "The more you refuse me now, the more you'll regret it later!" he growled.
Sylvia remained silent.
The Count, his eyelids drooping, leaned back in his seat. Spittle glistened in his moustache.
Surely it was not possible, thought Sylvia, that she had ever been attracted to this man!
She racked her brains to remember some moment of romance or intimacy between them. There was nothing. The Count might as well have been a phantom. If it were not for what he himself had told her – corroborated by her stepmother and her sisters – she would have taken him for an utter stranger.
The wheels of the coach turned with a monotonous rhythm, to which her tortured mind now supplied words.
Going to marry going to marry going to marry…
Sylvia felt movement on her knee and looked down. She found herself regarding her own hand as it nervously picked at the silk of her dress. She quickly laced her gloved fingers together in her lap and turned to look out of the window. She could see a light shining ahead and realised it illumined an attic window of Number One London – the
house belonging to the descendants of the Duke of Wellington.
"What are you staring at?" asked the Count. Only one of his eyes was open but it seemed fixed intently on her.
"A…a light. Above the trees. A yellow light. It's shining in the attic of a house by the park there. I think…a maid must be sitting up, darning socks or…something."
Her voice trailed off. The one open eye of the Count glowed like a hot coal in the darkness of the coach. Then suddenly he threw back his head with a roar so loud it made Sylvia start.
"Ha ha ha! Darning socks! Ha ha ha!"
"What is so…comical, sir?"
"You! If a maid is up at this hour it's for more than darning socks. And I wish I was a fly on the wall to see what young blood is – darning with her. Ha ha ha!"
The Count's coarse laughter metamorphosed into a cough. He dragged a handkerchief out of his pocket and spat into it.
Sylvia shrank against the backrest. As she did so she noticed that the faded velvet carried an odour of stale perfume and wax.
"I would hate to think, sir…that a young servant was…being taken advantage of in any way."
"That's what servant girls are for," growled the Count. Registering Sylvia's shock, he waved a hand at her. "Pshaw! What the deuce does a prig like you know about the ways of the world, eh?"
Sylvia felt her face burn. The misery that was engulfing her in this coach seemed but a portend of the misery that stretched ahead. Going to marry going to marry going to marry.
"Know what I'm going to do!" exclaimed the Count suddenly. "I'm going to educate you. Yes! Introduce you to women who are not strangers to the art of pleasing a fellow! Knock this priggishness out of you!"
Before Sylvia could utter a word, he thrust his head out of the carriage window and shouted up at the driver.
"To the Black Garter Club. Make haste!"
Sylvia was thrown sideways as the carriage wheeled round and set off back the way they had come.
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