The Lady in Gray

by Patricia Oliver

  Sylvia stared with a touch of alarm at the two pieces of folded vellum on the silver salver. She recognized both handwritings, one the insolent flourish of Sir Matthew, the other the neat, precise script of Nicholas Morley.

  After a brief hesitation she picked up the earl’s missive. Would she ride with him that afternoon? he wanted to know. He had something of vital importance to discuss with her. Of course she would, Sylvia thought, her spirits rising. She would go anywhere, do anything with him. Had she not made that abundantly clear last night with her response to his kiss?

  She went over to her little escritoire and wrote a short reply, which she gave to Molly to take down to Hobson. Only after that was taken care of did she pick up Matthew’s missive.

  The second message was equally short but not nearly so pleasant. Sylvia’s lips thinned at the peremptory tone of the baronet’s note. Meet him at Pirate’s Cove that afternoon, he commanded, or he would be forced to satisfy the curiosity of a certain vicar’s wife whose penchant for gossip would spread the tale of Sylvia’s disgrace the length and breadth of Cornwall.

  And what about his disgrace? Sylvia thought rebelliously. How unfair that a man could do the most dastardly deeds—both she and the unfortunate countess could testify to that—and the world would look the other way. But if a female so much as looked askance, or dared to set her foot outside the prescribed path, she was damned forever.

  Sylvia felt a sudden surge of compassion for the young countess. Whatever she had done, whatever mistakes she had made, she had not deserved to die for them, almost before her life had begun. Particularly not if she was carrying a child at the time. Nicholas’s child perhaps.

  This was a sobering thought, and Sylvia knew she must make a push to stop the man who might well have brought about the countess’s downfall.

  She must tell the earl. He had promised to send Matthew away if he bothered her. Well, he was bothering her, and it was time to fight back.

  * * *

  Nicholas read the letter again, then glanced up at the distraught face of his Aunt Lydia. A fresh wave of anger enveloped him, but he let none of his feelings show. It was characteristically callous of his cousin to use others for his own selfish ends; he had done so all his life, and Nicholas had little hope of his changing now.

  He had fallen under the spell of Matt’s charming persuasion himself any number of times, but he had never been reduced to the point of tears by his cousin’s gifted rhetoric. The letter he held in his hand was a prime example of Matt’s talent for exaggeration and falsehood. Not only was Debtors’ Prison mentioned twice, but also gruesome examples of the penury and hardship endured by its unfortunate inmates. No wonder poor Aunt Lydia’s face was tear- stained and anxious.

  Nicholas could have strangled his cousin at that moment with the greatest pleasure. What kind of a son would deliberately put his mother through this kind of distress? The wretch knew him far too well, Nicholas thought disgustedly. Matt’s repeated pleas for funds he could ignore, but his Aunt Lydia’s tears touched his heart.

  “How much do these debts add up to, Aunt?” he said finally, debating whether or not he should relent and pay off his cousin’s notes if only to see his beloved aunt happy again. “Matt does not say.”

  “He was afraid you would be angry, Nicholas,” Mrs. Hargate said in a shaky voice. “You know how upset the poor boy gets when he is crossed, dear.”

  Nicholas knew only too well how opposition affected his cousin. Unfortunately, he could not tell his aunt the more lurid details of her son’s responses to being thwarted. He loved her too much to inflict that burden upon her.

  “How much?” he repeated gently.

  His aunt hesitated, twisting her hands nervously. “It is not as though I did not have the money, dear. Poor George left me more than well provided for.”

  “Yes, he certainly did,” the earl replied grimly. “But so did Sir John, Matt’s father. And I do not need to remind you, my dear Aunt, that your precious Matt wasted it all, including your portion, two years after my uncle died. Had I not stepped in, the estate would have been sold off.”

  He stopped abruptly, cursing himself for distressing his aunt by bringing all this up again. His cousin’s sins were better left buried.

  His past ones, that is. Nicholas was far more troubled by those his infamous cousin might commit in the future—and commit them he undoubtedly would.

  “Oh, I know you are right, my dear Nicholas,” his aunt said in a quavery voice. “There was certainly no love lost between my late husband and Matthew. But my poor boy was hurt when George named you executor of his will. He always felt left out, you know. As though George did not trust him.”

  “He was right,” Nicholas could not help pointing out. “If he had, we would not be having this conversation. There would be no fortune left. Now tell me,” he said in a gentler tone, “how much does your son need to give him a fresh start in life—to quote his own words,” he added, glancing again at the paper in his hand.

  “Twenty thousand pounds.”

  “Twenty thousand pounds?” Nicholas repeated, astonished in spite of himself at the enormity of his cousin’s irresponsibility.

  “Yes, dear. That is the sum he mentioned at the ball last night. He is desperate, poor boy. Terrified of Debtors’ Prison, as you can see. He is depending on me to save him.”

  With an effort Nicholas kept his expression from revealing his contempt. How could he tell this woman that she was being used by a master deceiver? He himself felt the insidious tentacles of his cousin’s machinations. This letter he held in his hand had been carefully constructed to play upon the earl’s deep love for his aunt.

  “And it is not as if this sum would be anything more than a loan,” his aunt continued in a more cheerful voice. “Matthew swears he will repay me just as soon as he is married. He intends to move back to Farnaby Hall and set up his nursery, you see. I have been begging him to do so for years, of course, but he cannot be comfortable with this terrible debt hanging over his head, poor dear.”

  Nicholas was thunderstruck. “Married?” he repeated, stunned at his cousin’s audacity. How could Matt dare to spread rumors of a match with a lady who, if last night’s kisses were any indication, had no intention of renewing her aborted betrothal with the man who had betrayed her? But then again, a small voice reminded him, the Earl of Longueville was far from infallible in his selection of females.

  Could he have made another mistake in Lady Sylvia?

  “Am I to understand that my cousin has found a wealthy bride?”

  His aunt brightened perceptibly. “Oh, yes, dear. Of course, it is still a secret, and Matthew warned me to tell no one but you, Nicholas, but he is to wed Lady Sylvia Sutherland. A charming girl, as you know.”

  Mrs. Hargate chattered on excitedly, but the earl heard none of it. A knot of anger grew in his stomach as he began to understand the full extent of his cousin’s perfidy. Tell no one but him? How Matt must have enjoyed putting this piece of advice into his mother’s willing ear, knowing that she would come straight to the earl with it. How ingenious, he thought. Matt had exceeded himself in vicious intrigue. He was cleverer, and far more dangerous, than Nicholas had imagined possible.

  “Has the betrothal been formalized?” Nicholas hardly recognized his own voice as he asked this vital question.

  “If you mean, has the announcement been sent to the Gazette, no, not yet, dear,” his aunt replied, seemingly unaware of the chaos her revelations had created in her nephew. “But Matthew tells me she has accepted him,” she added, a smile chasing away her former anxiety. “All the poor dear needs is your assurance that he may start his married life free of debt.”

  Nicholas felt as though a stake had been driven through his heart. Could any of this be true? he wondered, his mind struggling with the ugly suspicions planted there by his cousin’s clever manipulations. There was only one way to find out. He must confront Sylvia herself this afternoon during their ride together. He could not a
fford to put his suspicions aside until after he was irrevocably tied to her, as he had done with Angelica.

  The irony of the situation was not lost on Nicholas, as he was sure his devious cousin had intended. Here he was on the brink of selecting a second countess, and the very man who had come between the earl and his first countess appeared to be repeating his despicable performance with the second.

  Nicholas felt the tentacles of his cousin’s malice, vindictiveness, and spite tightening around him. The air fairly crackled with a sense of danger. The earl’s skin crawled with apprehension, and he felt chilled, as though he had witnessed an aberration so horrendous he could not name it.

  Jason’s dire warnings flooded back to him, and for the first time Nicholas believed them. He himself might—nay, he must if Matt’s plans to step into his shoes were to bear fruit—be the next victim.

  Abruptly, Nicholas folded his cousin’s letter and stuffed it into his pocket. “Allow me to keep this, Aunt,” he said in response to her startled glance. “I will speak to Matthew myself and see what can be done. In the meantime, do not worry your head on the matter. I know my mother is counting on your help with her guest list for the house party she is planning. Leave this matter to me.”

  He watched his aunt’s solid figure trip off down the hall, and felt the overwhelming need to protect this beloved woman from the machinations of her own son.

  And Sylvia, too, he thought, turning to go upstairs to change into his riding clothes. He would save her from the consequences of her own folly, if indeed she had done the unthinkable and accepted the man who wanted her for all the wrong reasons.

  How could he be so sure that his own reasons were the right ones? he found himself asking an hour later as he mounted and turned Arion’s head towards Whitecliffs. The question made Nicholas smile for the first time since he had read his cousin’s letter.

  He knew the answer lay in his heart, and he was determined that Sylvia would know it, too, before the day was over.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Kidnapped

  The sky was no longer cloudless, nor the sun so brilliant when Lady Sylvia descended to the front hall shortly after nuncheon, dressed in her slate gray riding habit. She paused before the portrait of The Lady in Gray, as she often did, and gazed up at the radiant happiness reflected in the painted face. This was how she would appear if her aunt were to paint her portrait again today, Sylvia thought, conscious of the glow of joy that made her heart sing.

  “You look very pleased with yourself this afternoon, my dear.” A melodious voice broke into her reverie, and Sylvia turned to see her aunt coming out of the library. “I trust his lordship does not plan to ride too far, Sylvia. The weather is changing, and Hobson says that we may get some rain.”

  “We shall be back long before that, Aunt,” Sylvia replied, adjusting her little gray beaver more firmly on her head, so the pink feather curled seductively against her cheek. “I expect Longueville will want to stay for tea. You know how much he enjoys Cook’s tarts.”

  Lady Marguerite merely smiled enigmatically and swept down the hall towards the back of the house. Sylvia suspected her aunt entertained some romantic notion of a match between the unsuspecting earl and her niece. Vain daydreaming, of course, but since she shared the same fantasy, Sylvia could hardly accuse her aunt of foolishness.

  Dick, the undergroom, was holding Greyboy for her at the bottom of the front steps when Hobson opened the door. The gelding

  was restless, and Sylvia felt guilty for not taking him out more often.

  “Morning, milady,” the boy said cheerily. “Old Greyboy is feeling ’is oats, ’e is. Fair itching for a gallop.”

  “So I see,” Lady Sylvia replied, running her gloved hand down the gelding’s sleek neck. “We shall have to do something about that, old boy.” The horse turned his head and nibbled at the sleeve of her riding jacket with velvety lips.

  Hobson, who had come down to stand beside her, looked up at the scudding clouds and shook his head. “Looks like rain, milady,” he said lugubriously. “Old Jake has been saying so since yesterday. Gardeners always know these things, and Jake is hardly ever wrong.”

  From her seat on the tall horse, Sylvia looked down on her aunt’s ancient butler and smiled brightly. No threat of rain was going to keep her from riding out today. Nicholas had invited her. He had something of importance to discuss with her, his note had said. Something of importance? Of vital importance were his actual words, and Sylvia could not wait.

  “I shall return long before it rains, Hobson,” she promised. And with that she was gone, cantering down the driveway, past Giovanni’s statue of the naked Diana beside her lily pond, under the shady arch of the ancient lime trees that must have witnessed the passage of Lady Giselda on her wild moonlit sorties, past the fierce stone lions with their gray eyes fixed on the cliffs in the distance, eyes that had seen more than their share of Sutherland history.

  She turned left towards Mullion and pulled Greyboy down to a sedate trot. It was still early, and Sylvia did not wish to appear too anxious, too eager to see him again. Although the very fact that she was out on the public road at all, instead of waiting in the drawing room, as a proper lady should, would have damned her in the eyes of London’s Beau Monde. But this was not London, Sylvia reminded herself. This was the tip of Cornwall, as far away from the Metropolis as one could get short of stepping into the Channel. Here she could escape from prying eyes, from censure, from tedious restrictions. Here she was safe.

  Except for .. . Sylvia jerked her thoughts away from the one flaw in her happiness. But surely Sir Matthew could not harm her here? So close to home? And so close to Nicholas, who had kissed her last night as she had dreamed he would, and who had promised to protect her from his cousin.

  Above her the sky seemed to be clearing, and a weak sun glinted through the gray clouds. Sylvia’s first impulse was to take this as a good omen, but a familiar prickling of premonition made her uneasy.

  Then suddenly she saw him, a solitary rider cresting a rise ahead, and all caution evaporated. He was early, too, she thought, elated at the notion that the man she loved was as impatient as she. Greyboy must have detected her excitement, for he nickered and broke into a canter, ears pointed towards the approaching horseman.

  Too late, Sylvia saw that the rider, whose horse had also quickened its pace, was not the Earl of Longueville.

  “Well met, my love,” Sir Matthew drawled softly, his eyes roving over her lazily. “It pleases me immeasurably to see you so anxious for my company that you venture out alone, Sylvia.”

  He pulled up beside her, his knee brushing hers. “But then, you always were a reckless chit, my dear. I remember it well. A trait that I found most endearing. And convenient, too, of course.” He laughed gently, as though at some private joke, and Sylvia shivered at the sound of it.

  Sylvia tried to move away from the touch of his knee, but the baronet’s hand shot out and grasped Greyboy’s bridle. “No need for alarm, my love. After all, there is nothing I can do to your sweet self that I have not done before, now, is there?” He sniggered then, and Sylvia felt a tremor of panic. “I am quite looking forward to renewing our amorous games,” he added with a suggestive wink that made Sylvia’s blood run cold. “You were such a willing pupil, my dear. One of the best. I was devastated when your father snatched you away from me. Heartless of him, you must agree, love. What did he hope to achieve, after all? You were quite, quite ruined by then, of course. Why not allow us to marry? I could have used the blunt, let me tell you. Pockets to let and the bailiffs breathing down my neck. I expected you to convince the old fool to countenance the match, Sylvia, but when I received no word from you, I realized you had cast me aside. Broke my heart it did, love. Almost put me off women for good, I swear.”

  Sylvia listened with growing consternation to this litany of lies. She was appalled at the cast he had put upon an experience that had meant the world to her, and broken her heart into a thousand pieces
when he had not come to claim her. He made it seem all her fault, she thought indignantly. She wondered if the rogue had been able to explain away his affair with the countess as easily.

  “If you will excuse me, my lord,” she said stiffly, “I am expected at the Castle.” She pulled on the gelding’s reins, but Fam- aby merely grinned and edged his horse closer.

  “That is another bone of contention, my love,” he drawled, leaning over until Sylvia felt his breath on her face. “I cannot have my betrothed disappearing behind the bushes with other men, now, can I? Particularly not one who is showing all the signs of a man in love. Or, not to put too fine a point to it, a man who is hot for you, sweetheart. I cannot have my future wife spreading her charms about indiscriminately. No, sir, I can overlook any past indiscretions, of course, and knowing what a shameless little chit you were at eighteen, Sylvia, I can believe there must have been several.”

  “There you are off the mark, sir,” Sylvia interrupted, her anger aroused. “I am not your betrothed. And you had better release me at once, or—”

  “Or what?” Farnaby laughed, and Sylvia did not like the sound of it. “You will run to tell my cousin? Has the white knight promised to save you from the dragon? Is that it? Perhaps he has even offered to wed you, my dear. How unkind of him to deceive you. Our starched-up Nicholas is not a man to take other men’s leavings, I should warn you, dearest.”

  He seemed to find this terribly amusing, for he let out a wild crack of laughter. The humor did not reach his eyes, however, and Sylvia felt a sudden chill, as though the gentleman she had thought she knew so well had turned into a total stranger. A dangerous stranger.

  “So you can forget about becoming a countess, Sylvia, my pet.”

  “His lordship has never given any indication of such a possibility,” Sylvia replied coldly. And unfortunately that was true. Except for that revealing kiss last night, the earl had been cautious in his dealings with her.