The Lady in Gray

by Patricia Oliver

As she bent her head to allow Molly to clasp the necklace, Sylvia smiled to herself. She might as well admit it, she thought. After her aborted infatuation with Sir Matthew, John had been a constant source of comfort and affection for her battered heart. His yearly birthday gifts kept her connected, however tenuously, to a family life she had forfeited forever. Sylvia treasured them accordingly, and the sight of the glittering jewels resting on her pale skin reminded her that in another week John would be with her again.

  An hour later, it was with mixed emotions that Lady Sylvia descended the staircase to join her aunt and Giovanni in the hail below.

  “Brava ” the Italian exclaimed as soon as he saw her. “I see you are prepared to slay every unsuspecting gentleman who dares cast his eyes upon you, carissima. You look utterly charming, my dear.” He advanced to hand Sylvia down the last two steps, his face wreathed in smiles. “If I were but twenty years younger,” he added with a theatrical sigh, “I would be at your feet myself, although I beg you not to say so to my sweet Marguerite, for she would cast me out, never doubt it.”

  Lady Marguerite, who stood behind him and had listened impassively to this flowery speech, chuckled. “Pay no attention to this Tenorio, my dear Sylvia, although I agree with him, you are stunning in that gown.”

  A short time later, as Sylvia followed her aunt up the stairs at

  Huntsville Manor to greet their hosts, she wondered how well her stunning gown would hide the nervous fluttering of her heart. Her spirits revived somewhat when Lady Huntsville echoed her aunt’s words.

  No sooner had the Whitecliffs ladies taken a seat on one of the settees placed against the far wall than they were joined by Mrs. Rawson, out of breath and evidently bursting with gossip.

  “Have you heard that the earl’s cousin has returned to Helston, my lady?” she blurted out after the most perfunctory of greetings. “That handsome devil Sir Matthew Farnaby. Remember him? He was a guest at the Castle that dreadful summer the countess died,” she explained, turning her shiny, stone-hard eyes upon Sylvia. ‘That would be before your time, my dear,” she added. “Oh, but he was a handsome rogue if ever I saw one. The earl is nothing compared to his cousin. A veritable Adonis, I tell you. Not a girl in the neighborhood who did not cast lures out to him. Including the countess, they say,” she added with a wink and a smirk. “And of course, our own dear Martha—Grenville as she was then— made a complete fool of herself over the lad.”

  “A gazetted fortune hunter, was he not?” Lady Marguerite put in, attempting to stem the tide of gossip that spewed from Mrs. Rawson’s thin lips.

  “Aye, yes, poor lad,” the vicar’s wife answered with a dismissive gesture. “All on account of his cousin’s stinginess, Sir Matthew once confided to me. It appears the earl has control over Mrs. Hargate’s fortune by her second husband, and refuses to open the purse strings to the dear boy.”

  “Possibly because your poor boy wasted his own inheritance— including his mother’s portion, I hear—on dissolute living in London,” Lady Marguerite interrupted sharply. Sylvia knew from experience that her aunt had little tolerance for gossips of Mrs. Rawson’s ilk, but that lady appeared impervious to snubs.

  “I daresay that is all a hum,” she said lightly. “I cannot believe that a gentleman as polished and charming as Sir Matthew would leave his own mother destitute.”

  “Mrs. Hargate is not destitute, however,” Lady Marguerite retorted. “Thanks in no small part to dear Nicholas, who refuses to allow her profligate son to squander the second fortune Mr. Hargate’s left her.”

  “Be that as it may,” Mrs. Rawson said huffily, “I consider it too bad of him to force his cousin to pin his hopes on a rich wife. Not that he would have any trouble attracting one, I imagine. Not with his looks.”

  Sylvia saw with disgust that the old Tabby was smirking again, quite as though she were personally responsible for her favorite’s good looks.

  “I pity the unfortunate female who is selected for that honor,” she could not resist saying, ignoring a warning glance from her aunt.

  The vicar’s wife ignored this remark and favored Sylvia with a complacent smile. “No doubt the dear boy has already found his heiress and is settled down to a comfortable family life,” she said. “I only wonder that he should wish to come back to the Castle when it is common knowledge that the top-lofty earl treated him abominably, cutting him off from the family—and from visiting his mother, I should add—after the countess died.”

  Incensed by this display of malicious speculation, Sylvia opened her mouth to retort, but a glance from her aunt silenced her. How she would have loved to inform this busybody that her dear boy had been thwarted in his search for a rich wife, but excelled at seduction and betrayal.

  She was about to make her excuses and suggest to her aunt that they take a stroll around the room when she noticed Mrs. Raw- son’s plump cheeks flush with pleasure, and her smile widen until it threatened to crack her face in two. Her agate eyes, which had been darting about the room inquisitively, snapped open and riveted on the flock of guests making their way into the ballroom.

  Against her better judgment, Sylvia followed the old lady’s gaze and immediately wished she had not done so. She glanced away quickly, and saw that her aunt, who must have also noted the new arrival, wore a grim expression on her face.

  “Can that be Mrs. Highgate from over in Penzance talking to Martha?” Lady Marguerite said with studied casualness. “I wonder how her mother is doing. Let us find out, shall we, Sylvia?”

  Sylvia jumped to her feet, but before her aunt could follow her, Mrs. Rawson’s shrill voice forced them to pause.

  “There he is now!” she exclaimed, beside herself with excitement. “Do not rush off, my lady. I am sure the dear lad will want to renew his acquaintance with you.”

  Sylvia felt as though her heart had abruptly migrated to the soles of her pink dancing slippers. Now that the moment had finally arrived, she found herself singularly unprepared to face the man who had ruined that naive chit of eighteen she had once been.

  It was too late to retreat, of course, and Sylvia straightened her shoulders. She was no longer that innocent girl, she reminded herself, and was more than equipped to depress the pretensions of fortune hunters and other such rogues.

  She knew this to be true, but his voice, when it came, almost undid her.

  “My dear Lady Marguerite,” he drawled in that warm, caressing way she remembered so well, “what a delightful surprise. I swear you do not look a day older than the last time I saw you. At poor Angelica’s funeral, was it not? Such a tragic loss for everyone who knew her.” His voice dropped to a somber level, as if to remind them that he, too, had been touched by the countess’s death.

  Sylvia was appalled at the man’s cynicism, and any thrill she had experienced at the sound of his voice dissipated like a puff of smoke. If that letter she had obtained from Timmy meant anything—and how could it not?—-this villain knew more about the young woman’s death than any of them, and may well have had a hand in it. How could he be so callous?

  Curious to confirm whether the man she had once loved to distraction had indeed become so depraved as to seduce his own cousin’s wife, Sylvia turned around.

  The calculating look in Sir Matthew’s Farnaby’s pale blue eyes as they slowly raked her face, then slid down her body with barely concealed insolence, told her all she needed to know.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Tke Threat

  “What in blue blazes is keeping these women?”

  Nicholas had been striding up and down before the enormous hearth in the Great Hall for the better part of twenty minutes, and his explosive outburst revealed the growing level of his impatience.

  “Tut-tut, man,” Jason said from his comfortable position on an old-fashioned settee, obviously designed to seat half a regiment. “The dowager will doubtless be down when she is ready.”

  “Do sit down, Nick,” his friend said after another ten minutes had elapsed. “You a
re making me nervous, too. Lady Sylvia will still be at the ball whether we arrive late or not, and I am sure she will save a dance for you.”

  “I am more concerned about my cousin,” the earl confessed reluctantly. “The more I think on it, the more I believe you may be right, Jason. That shameless wretch would not hesitate to present himself at Huntsville Hall if he got an invitation.”

  “Oh, he got one, you may be sure of that,” Jason said with a cynical laugh. “Remember how Martha Grenville used to dote on him before she married Huntsville? All he would have to do is send one of those charming billets-doux he is so expert at writing, and dear little Martha will melt into a puddle of wax.”

  He had no time to respond, for at that moment the door was finally flung open, and the dowager sailed in, resplendent in plum- colored velvet and the Longueville rubies twinkling on her abundant bosom.

  A half hour later, their coach drew up before the Hall, and

  Nicholas handed his mother down, while Ransome escorted Mrs. Hargate, much less flamboyantly attired in dull green silk and a modest string of pearls.

  The strains of the orchestra, brought expressly from Exeter for the occasion, wafted down to greet them as they mounted to the first floor. The receiving line had long since been discontinued, but their hosts—alerted by a footman of the dowager’s arrival—were standing at the head of the stairs to accord her the reception and deference she expected.

  “So good of you to come, my lady,” their hostess murmured, acknowledging the dowager’s rank with a shy curtsy.

  The earl’s attention was not on the social pleasantries their hosts poured on with practiced ease, however, and he chafed at the inanities that passed for acceptable conversation in such situations. His eyes constantly drifted towards the entrance to the ballroom, where couples could be glimpsed going through the movements of a lively cotillion.

  He could not see the lady who had occupied his thoughts so consistently for the past week of his absence, and he wondered if Lady Sylvia was dancing, or whether she was sitting with the elderly ladies at the end of the hall. The thought that she might have taken refuge among those past the age of dancing disturbed him. She might soon be turning eight-and-twenty, he had recently discovered, but she was still in essence a young girl. At least she had always appeared so to him. She had the kind of beauty that, though not startling or extravagant as that possessed by some London Beauties, would carry her serenely through the years unblemished by the hand of time.

  With sudden clarity Nicholas knew that he wanted nothing so intensely as to be there to watch those years pass by; to witness the ripening of that auburn beauty; to observe, day by day, the maturing of a fascinating woman; to uncover the intimate thoughts that made her what she was. And, of course, he wanted to make her his.

  The dowager on his arm, the earl led the way towards the ballroom, his eyes seeking out that familiar red hair. When he found her, his heart gave a lurch. She was absolutely spectacular, much more so than he had expected. The silvery gown clung to her body in ways that caused his blood to surge and put him in grave danger of embarrassing himself.

  “How very charming,” Jason drawled from beside him, after the dowager and Aunt Lydia had been waylaid by a mountainous female in puce silk and feathered turban. “And utterly lovely, of course. I can understand your amazement, old boy, but do not broadcast your infatuation by standing there with mouth a-cock. Your mother will not be at all pleased, I can tell you.” Discovering that his mouth was indeed ajar, Nicholas shut it with a snap and glared at his friend. When his eyes slid back to Lady Sylvia, he noticed the man talking to her and his jaw clenched. “You were right, Jason,” he muttered under his breath. “That damned shabster cousin of mine is here already.”

  “So I notice,” Jason replied shortly. “But the lady does not appear to be paying him much heed.”

  “Why is she even talking to that rackety cockscomb?” Nicholas muttered with a peevishness that surprised him. “I want to smash the bastard’s face in for him,” he growled, loudly enough to cause a nearby matron to glance at him nervously, “for daring to approach her. Has he no shame at all?”

  “Let me handle this,” Jason said when the music stopped and couples milled around the floor. “The next is my dance, I believe, and I intend to claim it. And do remember where you are, Nicky, old chap. Lady Huntsville will hardly appreciate you turning her ballroom into Jackson’s sparring ring.”

  As Nicholas watched, he saw the captain deftly remove Lady Sylvia from her companions and escort her to the dance floor, where sets were already forming for a country dance.

  His devious cousin would welcome the chance to embarrass him, the earl knew. And to taunt him as well, unless Matt had changed considerably over the past ten years. This he doubted.

  An ugly thought struck him. If Matt’s pockets were again to let, as Aunt Lydia had claimed not long ago, and his luck with wealthy heiresses had run out, might his cousin not consider Lady Sylvia an easy victim? Perhaps his only chance of coming about. The more Nicholas pondered this possibility, the more likely it seemed that Matt was counting on sweeping Sylvia off her feet as he had done the first time. Why else would he return to Cornwall? Certainly not to see his mother, who heard from him only when he was in dire financial straights.

  The thought of his Sylvia married to his cousin made Nicholas physically ill. Of course, the lady might consider such a step a belated reparation of her honor, but what about her happiness? Matt would not care a fig about her happiness. He needed her fortune.

  And if he knew anything about his cousin, the earl knew that Matt would stop at nothing to get his way. Not even murder.

  With a flash of insight, Nicholas saw what his course must be. If his cousin offered to repair the lady’s reputation with marriage, surely an offer from the Earl of Longueville would more effectively restore Lady Sylvia to the social ranks from which she had fallen than anything Matt might offer. He, not his worthless cousin, would rescue the lady from disgrace.

  Having made up his mind, Nicholas scanned the room, hoping for a glimpse of the first female in years who had made the prospect of a second nuptial anything more than a duty to his name. His heart contracted at the sight of her, smiling up at Ran- some with a joyousness that made his breath catch in his throat. Nicholas was trying to imagine what it might be like to be the recipient of such a smile when a familiar insinuating voice interrupted these pleasant thoughts.

  “My dear Nicholas,” Sir Matthew Farnaby murmured softly, “what a delight to see you again. I trust you will not deny me the pleasure of your company after so many years of silence.”

  So, the earl thought cynically, his cousin was anxious not to be dismissed publicly by the relative he had—if evidence might be trusted—made a cuckold of. He turned slowly and found Matt standing beside him, his bland smile belied by the nervous flicker in his eyes.

  After a lengthy pause, during which the earl was conscious of every eye in the room upon him, he nodded briefly but said nothing. He toyed with the idea of turning away and strolling across the room, but such deliberate rudeness was beyond him.

  “What brings you to Cornwall?” he inquired after the silence became oppressive.

  Farnaby relaxed instantly. “To see my dear mother,” he offered with another bland smile. “However, to my dismay I found myself turned away from your door yesterday when I called. I told old Greenley he must be mistaken, but he had the impudence to call upon two stalwart footmen to stand ready to do me bodily harm if I did not leave instantly. His very words, mind you. I refuse to believe that you still harbor a grudge over that contretemps we had back then, Nicholas. I put all that behind me years ago.”

  The earl felt himself bristle at his cousin’s casual dismissal of adultery as a contretemps. The wretch had the effrontery to grin, he noticed, wishing he had smashed that smirk off his face back when the shock of betrayal had been fresh upon him.

  “I can well believe it,” he said dryly. “That was ever your w
ay of dealing with unpleasantness, was it not? After all, the lady is safely dead, is she not?”

  Farnaby appeared somewhat taken aback by this direct attack, but he was not one to be troubled by remorse, so he brushed the earl’s comment aside. “Callous as ever, Cousin?” His face broke into a grin, but Nicholas was not deceived. “My mother is not the only reason for my return, of course, although I do intend to make it up to the poor old thing. I know that if left to herself, she would give everything she has to ensure my happiness. But since you hold the purse strings, Cousin, I must rely on my own resources.”

  Revolted at the cynicism and selfishness of these remarks, Nicholas had to bite his tongue not to give this wretch a piece of his mind.

  “Happy to hear you have finally come to your senses,” was all he allowed himself to say.

  “Oh, I knew you would approve, old man,” Farnaby replied with a spurt of enthusiasm that sounded entirely false to the earl’s ears. “And when you hear the rest of my plans, I wager you will applaud my good sense in finding a permanent solution to my troubles.”

  Nicholas felt his stomach muscles tense. So this was it, he thought wearily. This is where Sylvia enters the picture. A sacrificial lamb to save his cousin from ruin. Again the urge to smash his fist into Farnaby’s smug face rose within him. He repressed it and merely returned his cousin’s gaze impassively.

  “I am to be married, Cousin,” Matt said in a tone that grated on the earl’s nerves. “The lady in question,” he added complacently, “is wealthy and willing. I am primed to pose the question at any moment, perhaps even tonight, if I get the chance. And after that it will be smooth sailing. You will no longer need to worry about rescuing me from Debtors’ Prison, Nicholas.”

  The earl let his eyes wander deliberately over the throng of guests in studied indifference to the baronet’s announcement. Even though he had anticipated his cousin’s designs on Lady Sylvia, hearing him admit it as though it were a fait accompli rattled him more than he liked. He suppressed a surge of jealousy at this cousin of his. Could it be that Matt had outsmarted him yet again? How could he be so sure of Sylvia’s acceptance? Was there something about the relationship between the two that he had overlooked? Did Sylvia still harbor a foolish tendre for the man who had ruined her?