Sybill backed away from the outstretched arms. All her life she had wanted to know her mother. When she no longer cared, the woman had found her way into her life. “Go away!”
Christopher laughed. “Now, Sybill, that is no way to talk. She is, after all, your mother. If you can’t be civil to her for that reason, remember another. She outranks you.”
“I don’t care. This is my house. I want both of you out of here.”
A petulant expression marred Blair’s face. What might have been charming decades ago was ludicrous. “Christopher, you told me it would be so easy.” She glared at the young woman. “She’s just like her father, isn’t she? So damn self-righteous! I could not tolerate that from him, nor will I from this slip of a child.”
“My father, despite his other faults, was a good parent,” Sybill responded. “That is more, madam, than I can say for you. You never had any interest in me, except the rare times when you came to call. Why? To ease your guilt at abandoning me?” Her knuckles eased their convulsive grip on the chair, as she went on in a calmer voice, “I don’t want you in my life, and I don’t want you in my child’s life.”
A sneer tilted her lips in a caricature of a smile. “I had heard you were pregnant, Sybill. I’m sure you will be the perfect mother to your bastard. Christopher tells me you convinced his senile father that the child is his.”
“This is Owen’s child.” She did not blink as she spoke the lie once more.
Blair waved her hand in Christopher’s direction. “Leave us, my lord. We wish to catch up on the years since we have been together last.” Her mouth moued in a pout as she pondered, “You couldn’t have been more than seven or eight.”
“There is nothing I wish to say to you, Countess.” Sybill moved away, but Christopher caught her arm. When she cried out in pain, he laughed and pressed her into a chair.
When he glanced at the older woman, she nodded. “Very well, my lord. Stay. I may need your assistance to keep her here to listen to the truth.” Sitting in the chair beside Sybill’s, she went on, “You wish to know the truth, don’t you, my dear daughter?”
“Not especially. I have no desire to hear you twisting the facts to try to excuse yourself from abandoning Father and me so you could marry a man with one foot in the grave.”
“No different from you, Sybill.” With a generous smile, she accepted the glass of wine Christopher offered her. Neither mentioned that he did not pour one for Sybill.
Hiding her anguish, she said smoothly, “Perhaps not, but I did not leave a man who loved me and my child. You ruined my father’s life. I won’t let you do that to me. Father did the best he could to raise me.”
“Alfred was a fool. He lived like a fool, and he died like one. All alone and penniless.”
“Not alone.” Sybill smiled for the first time. “Father had one thing to keep him from being alone. He had the love of his child. That, madam, you will never have. Who is the poorer at the final count?”
“How dare you? You are nothing!”
“Blair!” Christopher could not move quick enough to stop her beringed hand from striking Sybill.
Because she had not been prepared for her mother to react like this, Sybill could not avoid the hand. With a cry, she put her own palm over her cheek. When Christopher bent to check her reddened face, she pushed him away and rose. “Get out of my house, Countess! Although I can see you and Lord Foxbridge intend to act as if it is otherwise, this is my house. I don’t want you here.”
Blair’s face twisted. “You impudent brat! I don’t take orders from you. You are only the wife of the late Lord Foxbridge. Your husband is dead.” She slipped her arm through Christopher’s and gave him a coquettish glance. “You may have had the old lord, daughter, but I—”
“No!” Sybill’s face blanched as she looked at the man who was smiling uneasily. The tangled threads connecting them together had been rejumbled when Christopher invited his stepmother’s mother to share his bed. Backing away, Sybill wrapped her arms around her abdomen as if she could protect her child from the perversion. Neither of the others moved to block her, for she was not stepping toward the door.
“Don’t be so shocked, Sybill. We are doing nothing wrong.” Blair laughed lightly, but her brows were close in anger. “After all, you must not be averse to a bit of illicit loving in the hedgerows. Did Owen know which one of his tenants sired that bastard? He always thought he could rule the world. That he hoped to have anyone believe that child was his is a joke.”
More than she hated her late husband, Sybill discovered she despised the woman she could not call her mother. Countess Northrop embodied everything Sybill had loathed about London. Lying, adulterous, self-serving. Her mother was all this, and Sybill wanted no part of her. “If you won’t leave, I will!” she averred stoutly.
She could not reach the door before Christopher pulled away from Blair’s sugary talons and stopped her. Gripping her arms, he stared down into her glistening eyes. “My dear Lady Foxbridge, you have not been excused.”
“Oh, let her go, Christopher,” commanded the older woman. “She is tiresome. I want another drink. Where do you keep the wine?” She glanced over her shoulder as if she could not believe he had not jumped immediately to answer her demands. “I said let her go pout in her rooms. Then she will see that she would be wiser to accede to our wishes.”
Sybill watched the man’s face as he weighed his decision. He obviously did not want to end the cruelty to her, but he could not offend his patroness. Until he found a way to break his father’s will, he must be dependent on someone like Blair Corrigan to provide him with the money he needed for his extravagant lifestyle.
As his hands dropped to his side, Sybill smiled superiorly. She did not have to voice her contempt. All the times he had belittled her father were coming back to haunt him. “If you will excuse me, dear son.”
He did not meet her eyes as he mumbled something unintelligible. While she walked down the trio of steps, she heard Countess Northrop repeat her orders in a more strident voice. Perhaps, if she was lucky, these two would entertain each other until Trevor could return.
Marshall was waiting at the base of the stairs. On the pretext of aiding her up the long flight, he took her arm and walked with her. Leaning over, he whispered, “Tell us what to do, my lady.”
“I have sent for Trevor.”
“Good.” A vindictive smile was out of place on his kind face. “And anything else?”
“Can we get a message to the sheriff?”
He snorted with disbelief at her naïveté. When she regarded him in shock, he said hastily, “Excuse me, my lady. It is just that Steen will not lift a hand to help you. The man would be afraid of alienating Lord Foxbridge and losing his livelihood.”
Fatigue lining her face, she nodded. Few beyond these walls would do anything to aid her. If Christopher proved victorious, he would make Sybill’s allies pay dearly. There was nothing to do but wait until Mac Beckwith could contact Trevor and bring him here.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sybill did not feel like joining the others for dinner, but had no energy to fight the order brought by a cowering servant. After she soothed the lad, she had Clara help her dress. She did not listen to her maid’s pleas to ignore the edict. If Christopher had his chance to attempt to browbeat her, he would be satisfied and allow her to retire early.
When she reached the base of the stairs, a cacophony of voices grated on her ears. A man lounging in the doorway of the drawing room noticed her and called to his host. Christopher appeared instantly. His broad smile turned icy as he saw her with her chin raised in defiance. “Good evening,” he shouted jovially as he came toward her.
She fought her instinctive desire to flee. The drinking he had started with the countess must not have slowed all afternoon. His nearly colorless eyes glistened, and his words were slurred. He staggered. Catching himself, he laughed as he held out his arm. “Mother dear?”
Hesitating, she stared at him in r
eproach. In his months of exile, he had not changed. He chuckled and, taking her fingers painfully, pinned them to his sleeve. He kept his pace slow as he led her into the drawing room. With a gracious sweep of his hand, he sat her on the pale green, petit-point chair.
Sybill accepted a silver goblet which was placed directly in her face. Sipping slowly, she appraised her circumstances. Only one of Christopher’s friends she did not recognize from his last visit at the Cloister. The others appeared as dissolute as they had been during the rampage that had taken her and Trevor months to repair. A frown flitted across her lips as she saw she was the only female. She realized how closely she must guard her true feelings when Christopher spoke.
“If you are looking for your mother, I can tell you that you won’t be afflicted with her any longer. She is more tiresome than her daughter, so I sent her back to London.”
“You did what?”
He laughed at her astonishment. “Moulton decided he did not want to stay in the country, so I sent the countess with him. They will have a grand time.” He grinned at his cronies. “After all, Moulton always enjoys tumbling a rich woman, no matter her age.”
Sybill flushed at his crude words. Although she hated Blair Corrigan, she did not like to hear her mother insulted. “That is enough, Christopher!”
“Aye, on that you are correct.” He raised his wine goblet high in a silent toast before draining it. “I had enough of Blair. Something my father missed, although he had nearly everything else I ever wanted.” Gazing at the portraits over the fireplace, he sneered at the one of his father. “You old bastard, you denied me everything I wanted! I can tell you that Blair Corrigan is not the only thing you failed where I succeeded, Father.”
“Christopher, please …” Her voice trailed off as he whirled to glare at her. She had never seen such jealous rage as what transfigured his face. It terrified her.
He started to step toward her. She cringed, pulling away from his hatred. “No, my dear, dear Sybill, your mother won’t be the only thing Father wanted in vain.” He ran his fingers along her bare arm.
“Stop it,” she pleaded. “Owen was your father. Have some respect for him.”
“Respect?” he cried. “I will show you what kind of respect he deserves.”
When he drew a heavy chair to the edge of the hearth, his friends hooted with delight. From beneath his doublet, he drew a blade. He tilted it so the glint of the candlelight sparkled off it with an eye-hurting glare.
“No, Christopher!” Sybill screamed. She gained her feet awkwardly, but hands kept her from stopping him.
He leered over his shoulder at the woman being held by his friend Pearson. With a laugh, he raised the knife and cut through the canvas. Shreds of the material drifted to the floor as long strips hung haphazardly, distorting the portrait.
Sybill put her hands over her mouth and turned her head against the velvet of Pearson’s doublet. Christopher’s malicious decimation of his father’s picture made her nauseous. She had not suspected even Christopher Wythe was capable of this. When she heard a crash, she looked up involuntarily. He had taken the frame off the wall and was breaking it against the stones of the fireplace. Tossing the pieces into a corner of the room, he leapt down from the chair. At his command, she was released.
“Lord Foxbridge, Owen Wythe, exists no longer, my lady. I am all that is left of him on this earth.” He held up his hand as she opened her mouth. “Be done with it, Sybill. I won’t listen to your falsehoods of your child’s father. When we are married, that bastard child will be guaranteed employment in this house as long as it lives.”
“Married?” Her calm exterior broke to reveal her terror as she heard his calm pronouncement. She searched back into her mind for the words of the will. There was nothing to prevent him from doing what he suggested. If he could not possess the Cloister outright, he would obtain it through marrying the widow who held it for the child within her.
He swaggered over to her. With an imperious wave of his hand, he motioned his friends to leave. Only when the door of the drawing room was closed behind them, did Christopher speak. “There is Lady Foxbridge, the lovely Sybill Hampton Wythe.” He pointed to the unharmed portrait which seemed so alone. “The daughter of a man who catered to the needs of wealthy women, the wife of an ill, old man who could not perform his marital duties, the mother of a child whose father can be one of several men, and the lover of her estate supervisor. Blue eyes, as innocent as a spring sunrise, covering the black heart of a demon spawn.”
Coldly, she demanded, “Are you through?”
“No, for there are many other things you are, Sybill. One is incredibly beautiful, even though you are as round as a wagon wheel.” His eyes raked her. “That, fortunately, isn’t permanent. Soon you will be my pretty Sybill again.”
“I’m not yours! I won’t marry the man who has been sleeping with my mother!”
He placed his hand against her stomach. “Is that any different from you sleeping with my father?”
“I don’t want to marry you!” she asserted as she stepped back from his questing fingers.
“Go ahead. Finish.”
“Finish what?”
Again he laughed. “You don’t want to marry me, and you never slept with my father.” When she refused to answer, he wrapped his arms around her and forced her mouth beneath his. Easily he kept her clawing fingers from him. He chuckled as she found she could not escape him.
Sybill stared at him in helpless misery. She had no choice. She must flee from Foxbridge Cloister. There was no time to waste waiting for Mac to find Trevor. Christopher might hurt her seriously.
“Tell me,” he demanded. He forced her to sit by him on the bench. Putting his nose against hers, he ordered, “Tell me whose bastard my father has given Foxbridge Cloister to. I have heard you rescued some Spanish dog from the waves. Is it his? Or Breton’s? Or Beckwith’s? Do you and your maid share him?”
“You are disgusting!”
“Tell me!”
“This is Owen’s child. It is!” Her voice rose into a scream as he gripped her hair painfully.
“Tell me!”
“I did.”
He pushed her against the cushions. Leaning over her, he said, “You will tell me the truth, Sybill. If I can’t convince you before Breton returns, he will tell me then.”
“Trevor? He can’t tell you anything but the truth, and I have told you that already.”
“He will tell. He adores you. Even if my dim-witted father could not see that, I knew. He certainly wasted no time solidifying his hold over you once he knew you possessed the Cloister.” He smiled coldly. “He will tell me. I promise you that.”
Her eyes widened in horror as she guessed his plans. Christopher would threaten to harm her if Trevor did not reveal what he knew. As Owen’s manager, he was sure to know the truth.
When he stood, he made no effort to aid her. “Think on it, Sybill.”
She did not hear his words as she pushed herself up. The twinge in her side grew to streak across her body in a way she knew too well. Biting her lip, she recalled Mrs. Beckwith’s words not to strain herself. She prayed this was false labor. Although she wanted to send for the midwife, Christopher would refuse her request when he was so angry.
“Did you hear me?” he grumbled.
“I heard you.” Her voice was breathless as she fought to contain her pain.
“And?”
She looked at him. She had no idea what he had been saying. From the way his mouth twisted beneath the yellow line of his mustache, she was sure it had been another order. Whatever he wanted her to do, she was sure not to do when she felt better. For now, she did not want to argue. “I will,” she whispered, hoping that was the correct answer.
When he smiled triumphantly, she knew she had guessed correctly and wondered what she had promised. He held out his hand. Weakly she placed hers in it. She needed his help to rise. The pain began to ebb as she stood, and she sighed in relief. During the weddi
ng, the contractions had been much stronger. Hoping that was a good sign, she walked by Christopher’s side to the dining room.
He sat her in her regular seat. Dropping into the chair at the head of the table, he put his feet up on the one opposite her. His friends drifted in as they realized it was time to eat. While they gossiped around her, Sybill stared at the center of her plate. A second contraction had appeared almost immediately on the end of the first. This one was much stronger. Beneath the table, her fingers clenched in agony. She would not be able to tolerate this anguish silently much longer.
Christopher continued to enjoy his friends’ bawdy jokes. While the wine was being poured, he paid no attention to Sybill. Raising his glass, he turned to her. “Come, Sybill. Drink to Foxbridge Cloister’s newest Lord Foxbridge.”
Her eyes closed. As the wave rippled from her middle to consume her, she could pretend no longer. Hands jerked her to her feet, and she shrieked. As if from a great distance, she heard Christopher’s childish voice demanding that she obey. When he released her, she put one hand on the table to balance herself. Her face twisted to regard the one so like Owen’s.
“What game are you playing now, woman?”
“It’s the baby,” she gasped. “Christopher, I need help. The baby! It’s coming.”
In fear and disgust, he backed away. The other men surrounding the table stared at her as if she had contracted some horrible disease and was changing before their eyes. One urged, “Send for the midwife, Wythe. If she dies in childbirth, all this goes to Gloriana.”
The mention of the loss of his birthright was enough to jolt Christopher from his catatonia. To lose everything simply because he delayed would be too ironic. He reached for the bellpull. Sending for Mrs. Beckwith, he scooped the suffering woman into his arms. As the contraction passed, she sagged against his chest. He managed to climb the stairs to the master bedroom. Placing her on the bed, he stepped away as Clara came running.
“My lord, I think you should leave.”
“Leave?” His eyes narrowed with rage. “I should leave so she can be sure a living child is called hers?”
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