“There’s a perfectly nice desk in that room already,” he swung around to look at her.
“Yes, but I wish some of my own things around me. You will allow me that, won’t you?” She fluttered her lashes, hoping the effect pleased him. A flirtatious, shrewd woman would have better luck with Coombe.
“I’m not sure about Chippendale though,” he called down, having reached the top.
Conscious of a rustle at every step, Sibella was forced to follow him to continue the conversation. “But Chippendale made beautiful things. Do you not agree?”
“In the right setting.”
They reached the landing. Coombe walked along the corridor and threw open the door to Mary Jane’s chamber. He stood aside for Sibella to enter.
She hesitated.
With a warm glance, he waved her in. “Well? Come in and show me where they are to go.”
She stepped into the room but stayed by the door. “I thought to replace the small desk over by the window. I require something larger for the considerable amount of correspondence I write.”
He took her arm and drew her into the room. “What’s that infernal crackling noise?”
She flushed. “It’s not very polite of you to mention it, Henry. It’s to do with my underwear.”
He raised a brow. “Is it? How intriguing.”
“Not intriguing, I assure you. Too much starch. It’s… embarrassing.” She prayed he would leave the matter alone. “Now, shall we have tea?”
“In a while.” His study of her became disturbingly possessive. “I must say, I’m surprised to find you here. Alone.”
“My groom waits for me at the stables.”
“Does he? Then he shall wait a while longer.” She stilled when he took her by the shoulders, then slid his hands down her arms to pull her against him. He lowered his mouth to hers. Sibella’s breath caught, she was conscious of the letters, which must press against his thigh as he pulled her against him, his hands roaming down her back. His breath hissed against her mouth, his kiss hard and possessive, and not at all like his previously chaste kisses. She tried not to gag at the smell of Makassar oil he used liberally on his hair. When she recalled what Mary Jane had written, she had to struggle with the desire to push him back.
He drew away, excited anticipation in his eyes.
“You surprise me.” Her forced smile must have looked suitably strained. “being here like this is quite scandalous.”
“I have kept myself on a tight rein where you’re concerned,” he admitted, causing a rush of horror to weaken her knees. “But we shall be married in just a few weeks, is that not so?”
“But still, alone in a bedchamber. Our conduct will be talked about in the servants’ quarters. I confess I don’t feel comfortable about it.”
“My staff wouldn’t dare.” He sighed. “Very well. Go to the drawing room. I’ll be down directly.”
Relieved, Sibella hurried to the staircase. She wasn’t sure he believed her feeble explanation for the rustling. Would he think to check that the letters remained in their hiding place? She fought to stay calm when panic threatened to turn her descent into an unladylike scramble.
“One moment, Lady Sibella,” Coombe called from his bedchamber.
With a quick indrawn breath, she chose not to hear him. She flew down the last steps arriving in the entry hall in a fluster, and almost fell. The footman stared at her with concern. Above her, Coombe came to lean over the banister rail. “My, you are in a hurry. I merely wished to tell you I will drive you back to Lamplugh Abbey.”
“Would you? Thank you, Henry, so kind.” Relief made her voice catch. “I was meant to be there for luncheon. I’d hate to worry them.”
“I could hardly send you out into the rain on horseback. What would the duke think of me?” He looked pleased as he tugged at his cravat, then disappeared.
Sibella hurried into the drawing room. She took an agitated turn about the room, twisting her hands together. Before long, Coombe entered, dressed in fresh clothing, his hair brushed back. Her gaze flew to his but failed to judge his mood. His eyes reminded her of her mother’s jet necklace she always wore to funerals: gleaming, dark, and hard, and she looked away.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Strathairn drove his horses along the road toward Lamplugh Abbey, reflecting on his conversation with the dowager. Lady Brandreth confessed to having observed her daughter become increasingly unhappy. Her worry grew stronger after detecting a certain coldness in Coombe she didn’t much like and hadn’t noticed before. It may well be that marriage could change this once they got to know each other, but she wished she could be sure of it. She wasn’t asking for the impossible, but would he please try to draw Sibella out? They had been such good friends, she was sure her daughter would confide in him.
“I find myself somewhat helpless for the first time in my life, Strathairn.” She eyed him anxiously. “She doesn’t confide in me. My opinion no longer seems to matter.”
“I will, my lady. But Lady Sibella knows her own mind.” He tactfully declined to mention her brother’s determination that she marry Coombe.
“I wish Sibella had married you, Strathairn,” she admitted as he took his leave. “I could rest easy knowing she would be safe.” She drew out her handkerchief and sniffed. “It is a mother’s wish for their daughters to find a safe haven in this dangerous world.”
He’d bowed, wishing the same. He had come away stricken by the grand, fierce lady’s anguish, and his own troubled thoughts deepened.
He was no easier in his mind on reaching the abbey. The butler showed him into the blue salon. Dwarfed by the size of the room, the duke and duchess sat on cream satin sofas near the fireplace with Harrington and Maria.
He walked the length of the room, noting Sibella’s absence with a frustrated tightening of his lips. As he greeted them, he noticed Maria’s face looked pale and her worried gaze sought his as if trying to relay a message to him. Sibella! Where was she? He went cold.
“Welcome, Lord Strathairn.” The duke rose to greet him. “As you see, we are a small party at present and in dire need of your conversation. We await Lady Sibella’s return. After breakfast, she rode off with her groom to visit the deer park and did not arrive home in time for luncheon. The storm probably drove her to seek shelter.”
“I’m sure that’s what has occurred,” Strathairn said in a confident voice. A confidence he didn’t feel. With a deep uneasiness, he realized Coombe’s estate was in the direction of the deer park. Surely not… He pushed the thought away.” I’m afraid I bring you troublesome news.”
Strathairn sat and explained the situation. The duchess, alarmed, cried out. “Don’t say we must postpone the wedding!”
“What does the regent say to this?” the duke asked.
“He insists on attending, your Grace. I doubt anyone has declined.”
The duke narrowed his eyes. “We English won’t bow to repression of any kind.”
Strathairn agreed while he kept an eye on the door for Sibella. Maria knew something the others did not, and he wondered how he might learn of it.
Harrington pushed himself out of his chair. “I’ll visit the stables. They may have arrived back.”
Strathairn stood. “I’ll accompany you, Harrington.”
“I shall come, too,” Maria said quickly.
“Is it still raining?” The duchess peered through the long, mullioned windows.
“It appears the worst of the storm has passed,” Strathairn said, noting Maria’s stricken expression.
The rain had lessened to a slight drizzle as they left the house. They walked with umbrellas along the drive beneath dripping trees skirting puddles.
On reaching the stables, they learned that neither Sibella nor Manley had returned.
Maria clutched her fiancé’s sleeve. “Harry, I have kept something from you. I pray you’ll forgive me.” Her voice broke. “Sibella made me promise, but now that she hasn’t returned I must tell you.”
Harrington gazed tenderly at his fiancée. “Why what is it, my love?”
“Sibella rode to Coombe’s house. She hoped to be back in time for luncheon, but the storm…”
“Why did she go there?” Strathairn’s heart squeezed, his fears realized, he was caught between concern for her safety and the foolish irrational fear that she had tender feelings for Coombe.
“She hoped to find evidence which would convince Chaloner that Lord Coombe is not worthy of her hand in marriage. She suspects him of being cruel to his former wife, Mary Jane.”
Strathairn set his teeth. “Will Coombe be there?”
Maria wiped away a tear. “No, he departed for Bristol early this morning.”
“The creek becomes a raging torrent after heavy rain.” Harry frowned. “They might have turned back. I’ll ride out. I know where to look for them.”
“Forgive me, Harry,” Maria whispered. “I shall never keep anything from you again.”
He patted her cheek. “My poor love, what else could you do? I’m surprised Sibella did such a rash thing. It seems most unlike her.”
“She was driven to it,” Maria said.
Strathairn’s heart lurched as fear and anger threaded through him. Let her be safe. “They might take the road,” he said, fighting to stay calm.
“I’d best come with you. Sibella might need me,” Maria said.
“Would you allow me to take Lady Maria along with me, Harrington?”
“Yes, my lord, I trust you to keep my lady safe.”
“I’ll need two fresh horses.”
“Of course.” Harry strode to the stable.
Strathairn escorted Lady Maria to the house. She fetched her cloak and bonnet while he informed the duke and duchess of their plan.
“Harrington is a good man,” he said, as they drove along the straight drive toward the massive abbey gates.
“Oh yes, he is,” Maria said quietly. “I wanted the same for Sib.” She glanced at him. “I’m so afraid for her.”
“Sibella is a fine horsewoman.”
“Yes, that’s precisely why I’m afraid. Something else has delayed her return. She would never deliberately have placed me in this awkward position.”
Strathairn guided the phaeton through the gates and onto the road. “Harrington is right. It is out of character for Sibella to behave like this.” That she had come to him in the dead of night showed how distressed she was. And he had sent her back to him, fool that he was. He concentrated on a sharp corner, taking it faster than usual. “She must have been desperate to take such a risk,” he said when safely round it.
“Oh, she was. She has been so unhappy.”
He narrowed his eyes. If anything had happened to her at Coombe’s hands, the man would meet his maker.
*
Coombe drove Sibella in his curricle. Sibella’s attempts at light chatter failed miserably and they traveled the road in silence. She wished he had brought a groom; she disliked being alone with him.
They left the Chiddingston cottages behind and traveled along a quiet country lane. “You were wise to order Manley to wait until the weather cleared,” she said. “It would be difficult to ride through the forest after all this rain.” When Coombe didn’t answer, she glanced at him and suffered a frisson of fear. He was seething with anger. His jaw worked, and he held the reins in a tight grip. “Is something the matter?” she asked, afraid of his answer.
“You fool!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I have been so careful to ensure this marriage came about. And you have ruined everything. I would have been lenient with you. You could have enjoyed all that I offered if you’d been obedient. But no, you’re a nosey bitch, aren’t you?”
Sibella gasped and clung to the sides of the curricle. He slowed the horse, then drove the vehicle into an overgrown lane pulling up in a clearing behind a copse of trees out of sight of the road. He secured the reins, then swiveled to face her. “I believe you have something of mine.”
Sibella’s stomach roiled, she was afraid she’d be sick. “I don’t know what you mean.”
He grabbed her wrist and twisted it. “Give the letters to me. Now!”
“You’re hurting me.” Her breath came in frightened gasps as she tried to pry his fingers from her wrist.
His free hand clamped over the bunch of letters under her skirt. “Tucked into your stocking, are they? I thought that rustling was suspicious. They are my property. Shall I retrieve them myself?”
“No!” Sibella shoved at his chest, but he barely moved, still holding her in a steely grip.
“Very well, then.” His eyes burned fanatically as his grasping fingers gathered up the folds of her velvet habit, baring her legs above the knee.
“Lovely legs,” he said dispassionately, stroking her thigh. “I have been longing to spread them. It wasn’t easy keeping my lust under control. I’ll enjoy you once at least. You deserve it, for you have been a very bad girl.”
She punched at his arm. “Take me home! You cannot treat me this way. What will my family think of such behavior?” Terrified, she twisted within his grasp as the curricle rocked and the horse bucked and whinnied. Coombe’s thin lips stretched in a leer.
“I imagine they will be somewhat distraught after learning you died in a dreadful accident.”
She inhaled sharply. “Like Mary Jane?”
He sneered. “Easily done. She loved laudanum and took the large dose I gave her like a lamb. She was a weak, whining woman with no beauty. I shall enjoy you far more.”
Cold sweat gathered at her nape. How long before he killed her?
He fumbled awkwardly with the thick folds of her habit and petticoat while clutching her wrist. Sibella grasped the edge of the seat and with the other hand, threw all her weight away from him. Her petticoat tore in his hands. The horse whinnied, and the carriage jerked forward. Coombe overbalanced and was forced to let her go.
She whipped the letters out from under her garter and tossed them into the air. The wind caught them, scattering paper among the shrubbery and into the trees.
“Bitch!” Spittle formed at the corner of his mouth. Coombe reeled back and hit her hard across the face.
The blow rattled her teeth and stung her cheek. White light flashed before her eyes. With a cry, she fell backward out of the curricle, her skirt catching with a loud ripping sound. She landed hard on the muddy soil fighting for breath.
With a snarl, Coombe raced around, snatching at the letters within his reach. He gave up trying to collect the letters and swung back to her, murder in his eyes.
Bruised and winded, she clambered to her feet, just evading his lunge. Her torn habit trailing, she skirted the trees and ran back to the road with him pounding after her.
Sibella sensed Coombe gaining on her and desperately hoped for a carriage to come along, but the road was empty.
Coombe’s hand closed on her arm, pulling her back. Desperate to keep her balance, she twisted in Coombe’s grip and broke free, then turned to escape as a two-wheeled wagon loaded with brewers’ barrels came fast around the corner.
The wagon driver hauled on the reins. Barrels bounced over the road. One barrel struck Coombe a glancing blow, causing his feet to slip from under him.
As Coombe fought to keep his feet, he snatched at the horse’s bridle. The frightened animal reared in panic. Unable to right himself, Coombe fell to his knees. A hoof struck him a glancing blow to the head, and his roar of protest abruptly ended.
Surprise in his brown eyes, he toppled onto his back, his arms and legs at odd angles beneath him.
As if watching a tableau, shocked, Sibella stood unable to move as the frightened horse plunged again.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Little was said in the tense silence. Strathairn constantly searched ahead as the phaeton swayed along the country road. If he lost Sibella, he wasn’t sure he could endure it.
Maria held on to her hat which threatened to fly off in the gusty bre
eze. “Wouldn’t we have met them by now if they came this way?”
“Not necessarily. The storm would have delayed them.” He was surprised at how calm he sounded when the sense of urgency made his blood pound through his veins.
She gave him a grateful glance.
They rounded a corner and Maria cried out. “There’s Sibella!”
The breeze ruffled Sibella’s torn skirt and bared her thigh. When she turned to them, her face was blank with shock.
Strathairn drew the phaeton to a stop. He leapt down, horrified at the scene before him.
*
Sibella looked up as Strathairn strode toward her, pulling off his coat, Maria behind him.
“Are you all right, sweetheart?” he murmured as he slipped his coat around her shoulders.
“I am now.” She drew in a grateful breath of Strathairn’s male scent and pulled his coat across her chest.
Held safe within Strathairn’s arms, Sibella stared down at Coombe whose body lay sprawled on the road, surrounded by barrels. Blood seeped from his head. “Is he dead?” she whispered.
Strathairn gently turned her face away. “Don’t look.”
“As dead as a mullet in the fishmonger’s window,” the drayman observed, having steadied his nervous horse and climbed down. He removed his hat and scratched his head. “What the devil was goin’ on here?” He eyed Sibella’s torn skirt and tattered petticoat, the quality of her garments unmistakable, and raised his eyes to hers with a flush of embarrassment. “Beg pardon, miss. Was the blighter attempting to abduct you?”
“It’s a family matter,” Strathairn said in a tone which brooked no further discussion. “I am Lord Strathairn. Tell me your name, then I would like you to alert the constable at Chiddingston before you go about your business. I will ensure the authorities are made aware of the full story and that you are not to blame for the accident.”
“Right you are, milord. Me name’s Popperwell.” He looked around at his barrels strewn over the road. “I’ll clear the road. We don’t want no vehicles coming helter-skelter around the corner and running into us, do we?”
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