Sybill

by Ferguson, Jo Ann

  His gaze moved from her clothes, which flattered her slender form, to her face. Under hair nearly as dark as his own were eyes of the blue of the sea at sunrise. Despite himself, his eyes settled on her soft lips, which he was sure had welcomed those who called at the house on the Strand. He wondered how averse she would be to continuing her London life here.

  Mentally, he shook himself. They did not need a woman like Sybill Hampton in Foxbridge Cloister. Her dainty prettiness and background would insure trouble among the men of the Cloister. He must send her away.

  “Pardon me?” he asked when he realized she had spoken.

  She moved toward him, the fullness of her skirt swishing softly against the nap of the carpet. He had to fight his urge to either back away or close the distance between them more rapidly. Viciously he fought back both feelings. Trevor Breton was not accustomed to being attracted to a woman so strongly on such a short acquaintance. He did not want to change that precedent, especially with this woman.

  “I asked if I might see Lord Foxbridge.”

  “Of course, Miss Hampton. He is anxious to see you.”

  Motioning for Sybill to precede him, he pointed toward the staircase leading to the second floor. She did not have to look at the sternness of his face to know he did not want her in Foxbridge Cloister. A laugh bubbled within her, but she did not allow it to escape. She wondered what he would say if she told him she felt exactly the same.

  Her hands slid along the fine, oak banister. Although the additions to the original monastery had been completed less than a decade ago, the massive building appeared to have been in its setting for centuries. As she walked up the stairs, she noted the bits of art displayed in the niches along the stairwell.

  She recognized a small statue which once rested on a mantel in her house. When she had noted it missing, she had been ready to question the staff to determine what happened to the marble Eros. Her father had vetoed that plan. Now she understood why. He must have sold it in order to finance their lives in London. Not for the first time, she wondered why her father had chosen the lifestyle he had.

  At the landing, she paused as she looked out the large, circular window to see the somnolent gardens. She turned to Mr. Breton. “I see the window has not arrived yet.”

  He did not have to ask which window she meant. Many knew the lord had ordered a stained glass window with the family crest. Only the unease of the rumored war with Spain had made it impossible to have it delivered before the cold weather.

  His eyes were on a level with hers. The smoky line of his eyebrows came together as he saw her expression. Such innocence there was in her words. Far too much for the daughter of Alfred Hampton. He could not accuse her of perfidy when she had done nothing yet. It would be best if she did not suspect his concerns. Carefully he kept his voice calm as he stepped up next to her.

  “It has arrived, Miss Hampton. As soon as spring decides to stay, we will have it set in place.” He put his hand on her arm. “If you please, Miss Hampton.”

  She gasped and stepped away from his fingers, which had sent a bolt through her. There was no time to think of her reaction. One shoe slipped off the newly polished stone steps. With a cry, she fought for her balance.

  Strong arms captured her. She gripped them to assure herself she would not careen down the stairs to certain injury. Pressing her face close to her savior, she did not care if it was the officious Mr. Breton. Her close brush with disaster shook her to the depths of her soul.

  “Miss Hampton?” The anger she had seen on his face was reflected by the shortness of his demand.

  Cautiously she stepped away. It was obvious he did not want her near. Despite the coldness of his attitude, she did not move without forethought. She was careful to keep her back to the wall. Her voice trembled when she spoke. “I’m fine, Mr. Breton. Thank you.”

  He put his arm around her shoulders. When she started to pull away, he tightened his grip on her. “Be sensible!” he snapped. “You nearly fell. Let me help you up the stairs. Lord Foxbridge would not be pleased if his ward arrived bruised.”

  “Don’t call me that!” she cried at the term she hated more than anything else.

  It was a slap in the face, an insult, a reminder she could not survive without Lord Foxbridge’s charity. She ran up the stairs, away from Mr. Breton and the word that reminded her of her distressing state. When she reached the top of the few steps remaining, she did not pause, although she had no idea where she was going. She heard Mr. Breton calling for her to wait. Headstrong, in the manner which had earned her too many reprimands, she did not listen.

  Her eyes scanned the doors, but all were closed. No signs suggested what might lie beyond them. She did not care. She wanted nothing to do with Foxbridge Cloister. She wanted to go home where strangers presided over her table and slept in her bed.

  A door opened nearly in her face. With a gasp, she took a step backward and collided with Mr. Breton, who had been pursuing her. His arms encircled her waist as he kept her from falling once more. When he determined she was steady, he released her immediately. The estate manager did not want to touch her any longer than necessary. It was another opinion she shared with him.

  “Sybill! My child, how wonderful to see you at last!”

  Lord Foxbridge held out his arms. For a moment, she looked at the tall man who had not been stripped of his dignity by his years. The gold of his hair was interlaced with gray, but his face had gained distinction along with wrinkles. His pale blue eyes squinted at her myopically, in the manner she remembered so well.

  Before she quite knew what she was doing, she flung herself into his arms and was sobbing against the quilted satin of his dressing robe. His fingers, rubbing her back, were gnarled by years of riding across the windy moors while overseeing the tenant farms owned by the Cloister. She wept for something that had died within her. Perhaps seeing him had shown her like nothing else that her adoring, rakehell father was gone. She could no longer pretend it was another of the elaborate jokes Alfred Hampton enjoyed playing on his daughter. Her father was dead.

  “Hush, child. Do not cry so harshly.” He looked over her head to see the astonishment on his assistant’s face and was surprised by Trevor’s reaction. He had thought Trevor would be impressed favorably by pretty Sybill Hampton. She had grown from a charming child to a lovely woman. He guessed she was past nineteen, certainly well aware of her attractiveness to men. Instead of admiring her, Trevor acted as if she was infected with the plague.

  Quietly, Lord Foxbridge ordered, “Come in, Sybill. Trevor, will you bring a bottle of wine from the library? Miss Hampton needs something to calm herself after her harrowing times.”

  The door closed in the face of the other man. It was just as well, for Trevor was unsure if he could have hidden his rage. The lord’s words told him quite clearly what this woman’s place was to be.

  Miss Hampton!

  As if the daughter of that man deserved such courtesy. His lips tightened into a straight line as he vowed he would do what he could to make sure she did not play the games she would have learned at her father’s knee. She could be no better than the easy women in the unsavory London borough of Southwark, but he was going to be required to act as a servant for her.

  Viciously snarling from behind his clenched teeth, he stamped to the stairs to do as his lord had requested. This was a state of affairs that would not last long. He was determined to see to that personally.

  In the sitting room of Lord Foxbridge’s private rooms, Sybill was managing to control her emotions. With a handkerchief she drew from a bag tied to her belt by the silken cord, she wiped her eyes as Lord Foxbridge continued to try to soothe her. She did not protest his awkward pats on her shoulder. In his letters, he had signed himself as “your dear uncle, Owen Wythe.” That was how she considered him. His touch affected her nothing like Mr. Breton’s did. Her tears dried quickly as, with rage, she recalled the estate manager’s actions. Perhaps he was a fine servant, but he had proven he
was no gentleman.

  With a weak smile, she looked up into Lord Foxbridge’s concerned face. “I’m fine, my lord. Forgive me for being so weepy. It hasn’t been easy since Father died.”

  “I understand,” he said, although he had no idea if she spoke of the death of her progenitor, which had been lamented by so few publicly, or the financial troubles that always had plagued Alfred Hampton. “You are safe here, child. No one can hurt you again.”

  “Thank you.” Her gaze went around the room. She noted the heavy furniture made in the latest style. Although there never was much gold in the Hampton household, her father had been sure all they possessed was of the highest quality. Until his shocking death, she had not questioned how it was paid for when there was little money to buy from the food peddlers in the street. “Lord Foxbridge, I must tell you I appreciate you opening your home to a stranger.”

  He chuckled as he sat in a chair covered with light green velvet. “Stranger? You are hardly that, my dear child. After all the wonderful letters you have written to me in the past year.”

  “All? There were only two or three,” she corrected. She tried to recall what she had said which would make him think he knew her. Little in the stilted missives reflected the true Sybill Hampton.

  “I enjoyed them and reread them so often, it seems impossible there could be that few.” He waved aside the topic. “It does not matter, for you are here now. My guest as I have been your guest in the past.”

  Her answer was halted by the door opening. Although her smile faded, she could not keep her eyes from savoring the handsomeness of Trevor Breton. From his position in Lord Foxbridge’s household, it would seem his intelligence matched his outward appearance. If he had not been so uncourtly, she would not have minded having a friend like Mr. Breton to keep her mind from becoming dull in this wasteland. Her greatest enjoyment had been the spirited, witty conversation at her father’s table. She wondered if she would find any like that in this wilderness. When he looked in her direction, she lowered her eyes. The moment their eyes met, she had seen his revulsion.

  Iciness filled his voice, as he said, “As you requested, m’lord. Here is the wine. Do you wish me to pour?”

  Lord Foxbridge asked, clearly baffled, “Is there a problem, Trevor?”

  “None that I know of, m’lord.”

  “Very well. Pour three glasses and join us. I know you will want to have a chance to become better acquainted with Foxbridge’s newest lady.”

  The wine splashed onto the linen tablecloth. Trevor looked up in dismay, but the lord and his pretty, young guest were talking as if nothing was wrong. Perhaps that was the way they saw it. Especially Sybill Hampton. Nothing could be wrong for her if the lord was set to announce she would become the lady of Foxbridge Cloister.

  As he dropped a damp cloth over the stain, he asked himself why he should be so surprised. Before the woman arrived, he had overheard talk among the servants about why Lord Foxbridge would invite Sybill Hampton here. No one could be unaware of what her father had been, and there was a great deal of snickering behind hands.

  More cautiously he finished filling three goblets with the blood red wine. With Lord Foxbridge’s son determined to drain every coin from the estate to waste in the brothels and playhouses of London, they had no need for another of the same type. Lord Foxbridge was not making any effort to hide his enchantment with her, so it would be Trevor’s job to rid Foxbridge Cloister of her.

  Loathing the circumstances which forced him to be polite, he held out a goblet to Sybill. “Miss Hampton?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Breton.” She was careful her fingers did not brush his. If she touched him again, she did not know what the result would be.

  Lord Foxbridge chuckled. “How formal you are! Sybill, you must feel free to call my aide by his Christian name. You don’t mind, do you, Trevor?”

  “Of course not.” He smiled, but his skin felt as if it was being stretched too tightly. The insult was clear. He was to allow her to use his given name, but the compliment was not to be returned. Never in his years at the Cloister had he been reminded in this manner of his yeoman status.

  Sybill noted his reaction to Lord Foxbridge’s unthinking words. Trevor Breton did not seem like a man who would take such treatment lightly. For her, she was increasingly sure he was dangerous. She took a sip of the rich-bodied wine while she watched him retrieve the other two glasses. The men were conversing, so she did not think either noticed her perusal of the man who fascinated and frightened her.

  As he accepted his glass, Lord Foxbridge said, “I think it might be a good idea if you show Miss Hampton around the estate and village, Trevor. You will find she rides well.”

  Black eyes settled on her. “Is that so? Do you think you can handle the uneven paths around the Cloister?”

  “I will manage.”

  “She has ridden with her father and me when we went hawking, Trevor. She will do well.” Lord Foxbridge smiled into his goblet. The antagonism already developing between his guest and his trusted assistant was entertaining. Although it was not what he had expected when these two met, he did not doubt all would work out fine in the end.

  As he listened to their stilted conversation, he sipped on his wine. Yes, it would all work out fine in the end.

  Chapter Two

  Sybill stared at the bed canopy. Her warm nest was tinted with golden light from the morning sun filtering through the bed curtains. Drawing the bedcovers closer to her chin, she sighed.

  More than ever, she was sure it was a mistake to be at Foxbridge Cloister. Not that Lord Foxbridge was not as kind as she recalled him. He seemed the perfect host. Charming and generous. Instead of the spartan room she expected would be her lot, he had insisted she use this lovely suite. In addition to the bedroom, which dwarfed the one she had in London, there was a private chamber for Kate and a sitting room with its own hearth. Like the other rooms, it was decorated with new furniture which the lord had purchased to fill the massive addition to the original cloister.

  She could have no complaints about the lord. It was his servant who concerned her. With a groan, she buried her face in her pillow. Trevor Breton hated her. He made no effort to hide that. Why he should despise her, she did not know, but she could guess.

  Lord Foxbridge was not young. In his letters, he had not dissembled about his deteriorating health. Under those circumstances, he would have to depend on his estate manager. By the way the servants deferred to Mr. Breton, she could tell he ran the estate single-handedly. Although he would give his orders in Lord Foxbridge’s name, an aura of power surrounded Mr. Breton.

  And he hated her because he feared her. He suspected she would be able to see the truth and would report to someone how much authority he had gained. Let him try to oust her from her only home, and she would resort to such tactics.

  Sybill gasped at her own hateful thoughts. Sweeping aside the bed curtains so forcefully that the rings holding them to the railing near the top of the canopy jangled, she climbed down the steps from the high bed. She went to the mirror at the dressing table to determine if she had changed during the night.

  Although her features were unaltered, the gentle Sybill who had trusted life to treat her well had died with her father. Harshly she had been taught how little others cared for her, and she forced herself to harden her heart to worry as little about others. It was not easy, because she always was the caring one. Time after time, Kate had scolded her for giving pennies to street urchins. She had no more coins to offer anyone. All she possessed was this invitation to live at Foxbridge Cloister. She was not going to let anyone wrench it from her until she could decide what she would do. If Trevor Breton tried to have her evicted from Foxbridge Cloister, she would fight him with every weapon she could devise. Her most powerful one was the lord himself.

  “Good morning.”

  She spun to see Kate entering. It was useless to remonstrate with her maid. In the nearly three years she had worked for the Hamptons, Sybill ha
d never been able to convince her to knock.

  “Good morning,” she answered shortly.

  “Grumpy this morning?” Her own voice was cheerful. “A message just came. The lord would like you to have breakfast with him.”

  “Breakfast?”

  The morning meal was not one for socializing. She never would have thought of asking a guest or even a member of the family to share the meal with her. Only on rare occasions had she seen her father before midday. That practice was not confined only to the Hampton household, where the entertainments often went until dawn. Many families served breakfast in the privacy of each member’s bedroom.

  The maid laughed as she walked to the cupboard where Miss Sybill’s clothes were stored. “This isn’t London.”

  “I think I have noticed that!” she snapped. She rubbed her forehead. “Pardon me, Kate. I have an aching head.”

  Nothing could affect Kate’s bright spirits. She hummed as she helped Sybill dress. Like everything the young woman wore, the gown was a tired black. Slipping it over her chemise, she stood quietly while Kate hooked up the back. She smoothed the wrinkles from the plain skirt which flowed to pool on the floor. Adjusting the bodice which laced with crisscrossed ties, she thanked Kate absently for her help.

  Brushing her hair did not help her mood. She had been so disgruntled, she had forgotten to braid it before bed. Now the tangles were bunched from the back of her neck to its ends near her waist. Although many women wore their hair short, her father had insisted that she not cut her dark strands.

  She bit back an oath which would earn her a reprimand from Kate. Finally she convinced her hair to behave and rolled it into the thick bun she wore at her nape.

  “If you are ready, Miss Sybill, I can take you down to the room where Lord Foxbridge has breakfast served.”

  “You know where it is?” she asked, puzzled.

  The coarse sound like a handsaw on a log was Kate’s version of a laugh. “I have not been lying in bed late. A servant learns quickly if she wishes to keep her place.”