Vaughn asked surprisingly intelligent questions about the stud, and he did his best to answer them as they dismounted at the stables, then walked down the avenue of trees, fallen chestnuts crunching underfoot. In the library after dinner, Strathairn eyed the hunched young man sitting opposite him in the fireside chair. “How much money do you owe?”
Vaughn winced. “A thousand guineas.”
“You went to the cent per centers.”
Vaughn nodded. “The interest is crippling. I had hoped Chaloner would bail me out before it got to this.”
“Chaloner’s not a mean man. I believe he tried to rein you in.”
Vaughn scowled. “I regret being so pig headed. I got myself into this mess, and I’m determined to get myself out.”
Strathairn eyed him sympathetically. He might have got into the same trouble when he was younger, had he not chosen the army. “You are genuinely interested in horses, aren’t you? Not just betting on them.”
“Indeed, yes. One day I hope to set up a breeding stable like yours.” His shoulders sank. “If I ever get free of debt.” He shoved an errant lock back with an impatient hand. “But I won’t come into my inheritance for years.”
“You might consider a proposition of mine, then.”
Vaughn’s eyes widened. “Which is…?”
“You will have to be prepared to remain here and not be tempted to seek excitement in the city fleshpots. You can learn from my man and help with the running of the stables. That will require manual labor. I would be grateful if you’d help me out until things settle down in London.”
“But the money lenders are after me—”
“I’ll pay them off.”
Vaughn gasped. “I can’t allow you to do that.”
“Yes, you can. You’ll earn every bit of it. But you must write to Lady Sibella and tell her where you are. I’ll take your letter with me tomorrow.”
Vaughn regained some of his lost cockiness, arching a dark eyebrow. “Sibella, eh? Not Edward?”
“Either,” Strathairn said offhandedly.
Brandreth’s green eyes assessed him. “I don’t know why you didn’t marry Sib, Strathairn.”
Strathairn offered him the decanter of whiskey. “Your sister has made a good match.”
Vaughn held out his glass. “I’d have preferred her to marry you. Don’t care for Coombe much.”
“Just write that letter. Tonight,” Strathairn said, refusing to be drawn. “And I’d rather you didn’t mention I’ve given you the money.”
“I shall have to tell Chaloner.”
“Let’s wait and see how well you do here.”
“That’s mighty generous of you.”
“Not really. It suits me, that’s all.” Strathairn took a swig of his drink, savoring the delicate toasty honey flavor of good whiskey. “And if you find life here doesn’t suit you, you are to let me know immediately. I’ll not chastise you.” He leaned forward. “But if I’m informed you are back at the racetrack, seeking out betting shops or Tattersall’s, you’ll be out on your backside.”
Vaughn’s eyes grew steely with determination. “I won’t let you down, Strathairn.”
Apparently, Vaughn meant it. At least for now.
*
At Lord Peter and Aida’s home in Curzon Street, Sibella attended Aida while her husband walked a distinct track in the corridor carpet. Finally, her sister gave birth to a daughter just before midnight. When the physician assured her that her sister was well and resting comfortably, Sibella returned wearily to St. James’s Square. The clock struck two as she climbed the stairs. She found her mother still awake in the drawing room.
“The babe is born?”
“Yes, Aida has a daughter.” Sibella removed her pelisse and hat and handed them to a footman.
“Both are well?”
“In excellent health. Peter is pleased and remains confident the next child will be a boy. Everyone is well. Do please go to bed, you look so tired.”
Her mother followed her along the corridor to her bedchamber. “As do you. I don’t know why Peter wouldn’t let me stay to care for Aida.”
“Neither Peter nor Aida wanted to risk your health,” Sibella said diplomatically. Aida had begged her husband to convince their mother to go home. She preferred Sibella’s calm practical nature to their mother’s more forceful one.
They entered her bedchamber. “And the babe, did you see her?”
“Oh yes. I held her.” She had studied the tiny hands, delicate features, and stroked the baby-soft skin. “She has the Brandreth’s black hair. I believe her eyes will be green, too.”
“I did fear she might inherit the drab coloring of Peter’s family. Such a plain woman, his mother. Lady Wallace and the earl are traveling up from Dorset. I daresay they’ll arrive first thing in the morning.” Her mother pulled the bell. “I’m ordering hot milk. Please drink it.” She stood behind Sibella who sat at the mirror removing the pins from her hair. “Where is your maid?”
“I told her not to wait up. I’m perfectly capable of getting myself ready for bed.”
“What nonsense.”
A rap on the door interrupted them. The bleary-eyed footman entered.
“Have hot milk and biscuits sent up, Bolt,” Lady Brandreth said.
Sibella brushed her hair. There was no point in telling her mother she couldn’t eat a bite even though she’d missed dinner. Her appetite had deserted her of late.
Lady Brandreth took the brush from her hand and ran it through Sibella’s hair. “You have not been at your best lately. Not at all like a woman about to marry.”
Sibella closed her eyes, enjoying her mother’s soothing touch. “I’m just tired.”
“Are you not pleased to marry Lord Coombe? Is he not polite and attentive?”
“He is. But I don’t love him.”
“The love of your life isn’t always the one you marry.” Her mother put down the brush and gathered Sibella’s hair into braids. “My dear, are you aware that I didn’t love your father when we first married?”
Sibella met her mother’s eyes in the mirror. “I wasn’t, Mama.”
“Not at first. I was desperately in love with someone entirely unsuitable.”
“Was he a rake?”
“Oh yes. Lord Bascom was a rake of the first order.”
Sibella swiveled to face her. “Did you ever regret not marrying Bascom?”
“Goodness, no. Do keep still. Bascom wed one of the Kirkpatrick twins. The poor lady died after only two years of marriage. Not from a surfeit of his company, I gathered. He was known to be seldom at home as gambling and mistresses were his favored pursuits.” She smiled into the mirror. “But his eyes were like melted chocolate and his physique quite startling…” Shaking her head, she laughed. “All the ladies were smitten with him. I clearly remember that he wanted me as desperately as I did him.”
Sibella studied her mother objectively. Age had thickened her waist and threaded white through her black hair but had also enhanced the fine bone structure of her face. “I believe many men did, Mama.”
“Yes, but your father was the best of them. We made an excellent match in the end. Just look at our progeny!”
Sibella rose to remove her dress. Her mother came to help her, undoing two buttons just out of reach. “Foolish to spoil your maid. She will grow lazy and useless.”
A footman brought in the hot milk and biscuits on a tray. The drink warmed her cold insides, but somehow the warmth failed to banish the chill which had lodged in her heart.
“I trust you will come to love Lord Coombe, my dear,” her mother said. “After you become intimate, everything changes.”
“I do hope so.” Sibella was too tired to argue. The image of John’s face as they stood on the pavement that last time swum into her mind’s eye. Was that misery darkening his eyes? It hardly mattered, he had made up his mind. So infuriatingly noble. But yes, she admired that about him, too. She sighed. But had he found Vaughn?
Her mother tucked her in bed and left the room. Sibella blew out the candle and lay staring into the dark. Her sister’s tiny babe was perfect. She wanted one of her own. She banished Coombe from her thoughts and indulged in the memory of John’s hair like rough silk beneath her fingers. A deep sigh escaped her lips as her senses came alive to the slide of silk nightgown against her thighs. Exhausted and sensually disturbed, she drifted off to sleep.
Chapter Thirteen
Foul air and clamor greeted Strathairn when he arrived back in the city. Seated at his desk in the library, he dashed off a note to Edward explaining that Vaughn was safe and enclosing Vaughn’s few lines addressed to Sibella explaining why he wished to remain at Linden Hall. He sprinkled sand over the letter, shook it, and folded it. Hesitating, he took a fresh sheet of bond, dipped his quill in the inkpot, and scrawled a brief missive to Sibella. If you should wish to learn more, I shall be riding in the park tomorrow at noon. He didn’t attempt to examine his motives too closely, aware that seeing her wouldn’t be helpful to either of them. But at least he had done what he promised and found Vaugh. Or Vaughn had found him. He instructed the footman to deliver the note before he changed his mind.
Strathairn rode into the park just before noon, with a glance at the sky. The rain held off but dark clouds threatened. Might she not come?
Sibella was too good a rider to favor the Ladies’ Mile. She often rode earlier in the day before the Beau Monde gathered. He was dismayed by how pleased he was to see her riding with her groom. He rode up and reined in beside her. She greeted him, her green eyes alight with gratitude. “I can’t tell you how relieved I was that Vaughn is safe at Linden Hall.” He allowed his gaze to take in her green riding habit which matched her eyes. “I’m immeasurably grateful,” she said. “You must tell me the whole.”
“Your brother sought his fortune at the race tracks,” Strathairn said. “I managed to persuade him to work in my stables. He seems keen to learn more about the stud. Always a strong interest of his as you know. And a far healthier endeavor than the life he pursued in London.”
“Oh, how clever of you!”
“Not so clever. I shall gain from the arrangement. I can’t be there as often as I’d like, and already, Vaughn shows some aptitude for the work.”
“It’s the perfect answer and most kind of you to take him on.”
His heart warmed to see her smile. He noted the violet shadows beneath her eyes as he studied her pale face framed by her black riding hat. “Edward tells me Lady Aida and Lord Peter have a daughter.”
“Yes, Catherine Ann. She’s a perfect peach.”
“She takes after her Aunt Sibella?”
Sibella steadied her mount as they grew closer to a couple riding ahead of them. “She has the Brandreth’s coloring. She favors my mother.”
“Then she will be a beauty.”
“I expect so.”
“And you have danced attendance on the babe and her mother? Day and night, forgoing sleep, I assume.”
Sibella tilted her head. “Why, my lord? Do I not look my best?”
“You are as beautiful as ever, if a little tired around the eyes.”
“You never were one to mince words.” Sibella dropped her gaze to the reins in her hands. “My fascinating new niece does not tire me. There is a lot to be done in preparation for the ball and Maria’s wedding. That is all.”
“Lady Sibella?”
“Ah, here is Lord Coombe come to join us.” Sibella’s tone sounded overly bright, and he found her smile strained.
Strathairn stayed long enough to exchange pleasantries and then excused himself. The charmless Coombe obviously disliked finding him with his fiancée. He left the park and rode home, disappointed at having so little time with her. What a fool he was. Did he seriously believe that Coombe would permit their friendship once they’d married? He delivered his horse to the stable mews and entered the house, his shoulders tense. Was he being unfair to the man? He questioned his motives and found that he just didn’t like the cut of Coombe’s jib.
*
Strathairn’s butler, Rhodes, delivered the mail on a silver tray. A letter bearing the Fortescue crest caught Strathairn’s eye. He slipped his thumb beneath the wax seal and unfolded the letter scanning the contents. Guy had news of great interest. He would be there at two and hoped to find Strathairn at home.
Curious, Strathairn ploughed through the rest of his correspondence while listening for the door knocker.
As the clock struck the hour, a wild-eyed Guy burst into the room.
Strathairn pushed back his chair and rose to greet him. “My friend, were you not in the country? What has brought you to my door with such urgency?”
Guy threw himself down in a leather chair. “Tiens! You’ll never credit it. Yesterday evening, I escorted my cousin, Eustace Fennimore, to Lord Bromehurst’s gaming hell in the alley behind St. James’s. You were with me when we found him in his cups a year or so back. Fennimore is an inveterate gambler who mixes alcohol with the laudanum prescribed for his gout to an alarming degree. When he asked me to accompany him, I agreed, because I feared he would be robbed, and possibly murdered for his purse. Hetty is fond of her godfather although why she does eludes me.”
The butler entered carrying a decanted bottle of wine and poured them a glass each. Guy drummed his fingers on the arm of his leather chair. The door closed on Rhodes. “Please continue,” Strathairn said impatiently.
“Forney’s wife was there again,” Guy said.
Strathairn sat up straight. “You saw her? Last night?”
Guy nodded. “As bold as you please, this time attired in a startling crimson affair, which caught my attention as I entered the room. I made sure she didn’t see me. She had old Lord Crutchet hanging off her arm.”
“That reprobate. I wonder what brought the countess to London. Did you manage to discover where she stays?”
“She is Crutchet’s guest in his ancient pile in Richmond.”
Strathairn put down his glass. “The deuce! If I leave now, I’ll likely find her at home.” He glanced at the clock as he moved to pull the bell. “Depending on the traffic, I can be there by four.”
Guy’s smile became bitter. “As her husband almost sent me to a watery grave, I’ll accompany you.”
The carriage made good time, and they alighted just before dusk in a leafy Richmond street close to the Thames. Lord Crutchet’s grotesque mansion sat amid a grove of twisted cypresses. “While I speak to the countess, you make a search of the house,” Strathairn said.
A butler almost as old as Crutchet answered the door. He dithered as he studied Strathairn’s calling card, his eyes widening when Guy leaned toward him, his big hand on the door jamb. “The countess doesn’t receive guests at this hour.”
“She will see me.” Strathairn pushed the heavy wooden door open. The frail, unsteady butler gulped audibly. “Please wait in the antechamber and I’ll ask if the countess will grant you an audience.”
Guy climbed the stairs as another elderly servant, dressed in Crutchet’s livery with baggy hose clinging to his knobby knees, scurried into the hall. “Sir! You cannot go upstairs.”
“Never mind, my good man,” Strathairn said. “Either send Countess Forney to me or my friend will bring her down bodily.”
He bent his head to enter through the low doorway into a musty, heavily beamed room. Velvet curtains at the narrow windows rendered the room as dark as night. The pair of candles on the mantle managed a feeble glow. The house reeked of dust, old age, and chamber pots. He couldn’t imagine the countess enjoying her stay there.
Countess Forney swept into the room in a violet negligee which clung to her curves. “What is that man doing searching the house? On whose authority?”
“Mine, Countess.” Strathairn remembered her as a woman who was aware of the power of her beauty and knew how to use it. She made little deference to widowhood. Her abundant dark hair flowed in loose curls down her back making her appear as if someon
e had just tumbled her into bed. It would not be Crutchet.
“I make no apology for my dishabille,” she said haughtily. “I was dressing to go out. You have called without an appointment and must take me as you find me. And if you wish to discover where my husband is, you’ve come on a fool’s errand.” She remained standing and did not invite him to sit.
Strathairn folded his arms. “Where is Count Forney, countess?”
“He is dead. I assume you haven’t come to offer your condolences.” She tilted her head. “What, you don’t believe me? It doesn’t say much for your intelligence service, does it? You won’t find him here. So, please, leave.”
“I wish to learn the circumstances of his death, if you please.” Strathairn leaned against the back of a chair, revealing no hurry to quit her company.
Her eyes narrowed. “His ship, bound for Marseilles, sank in a storm in the Mediterranean Sea near Palma.”
“The name of the ship, Countess?”
She shook her head. “My, but your intelligence is inferior. The Sea Serpent. Not a large or particularly seaworthy vessel. But the best he could find at the time.”
“How can you be certain he didn’t reach shore?” Guy walked into the room with a shake of his head at Strathairn. “He might have settled down with another woman somewhere in Spain.”
Her nostrils flared. “Forney would never have left me willingly.” She studied the rings on her fingers. “One of the crew survived and brought me news of him.” She moved toward the door. “Please go. I am still in mourning for my husband.”
Strathairn glanced at the bright silk and blond lace barely concealing her bosom. He remembered Guy said she wore crimson, not black or deep violet in the gambling hell. “Nevertheless, I’d like you to return to Whitehall with us, Countess Forney. Please, would you dress?”
She stiffened. “I have an engagement this evening. There is nothing more I can tell you.”
“Then we shall not keep you long.”
*
The day of Sibella’s betrothal ball dawned wet and dreary. The ballroom at St James’s Square had been subjected to a flurry of preparation for days. Urns of flowers decorated every corner. Crates of champagne shipped from France were chilled in the cellars. The menu for a large quantity of delectable foods was selected. Rooms seldom used were prepared with toiletries in the dressing rooms for the ladies and gentlemen, and extra servants brought up from the country to attend them.
Seducing the Earl Page 13
