by Jane Feather
Sylvester was silent, listening to the voice of conscience. Supposing he told this woman the truth … that none of them had been betrayed by the old earl—at least, not in the way they thought. But why should he, at the expense of his own future, put right the old man’s memory? He owed him nothing. The devious old man had created this mess … he’d set them all up.
“But I’m willing to change that, Lady Belmont,” he said after a minute. “I’m offering your daughter the chance to stay here, to see this inheritance pass down to her own children.”
“Yes, and it seems the perfect answer,” Elinor said, pausing to clip an unruly twig of box hedge with her secateurs. “But Theo may not see that just yet.”
And I don’t have all the time in the world to persuade her. He suppressed the irritable reflection and adjusted his stock, his long fingers restless in the linen folds as he asked abruptly, “Will you speak for me, ma’am?”
Elinor paused on the path, regarding him steadily from beneath the wide brim of her straw gardening hat. Her voice was level but very definite. “No, Stoneridge. You must speak for yourself.”
He made haste to retrieve his error. “I understand. Forgive the impertinence.” He bowed, touching his hat, his eyes rueful.
She did like him, Elinor decided. And those crinkly lines around his eyes were most attractive. She smiled and patted his arm. “I don’t blame you in the least, sir. When it comes to Theo, a wise man marshals all the battalions he can.”
“Then perhaps I should start marshaling,” he commented dryly.
Elinor followed his eyes. Theo and Rosie were coming down the path toward them, their eyes on the ground. The child suddenly darted forward, falling to her knees in the flower bed beneath the box hedge. Theo squatted beside her.
“Not more worms,” Elinor sighed. “Or is it snails now? I can never keep up with Rosie’s obsessions.”
Theo stood up, glancing down the path, seeming to see them for the first time. Sylvester wondered if she’d give him the cut direct and walk away, but, perhaps in deference to her mother’s presence, she walked toward them.
She’d changed out of her habit into a simple linen gown, less rustic than the unbleached holland smock she’d been wearing for trout tickling, but still very countrified with its plain scoop neck and elbow-length sleeves. She was hatless, and her hair hung in one thick blue-black rope down her back. He watched her approach, the way the gown moved over her hips with the easy swing of her stride.
“Dear me, Lord Stoneridge, this is an unexpected pleasure,” she said, reaching them, her eyes the deep velvet blue of pansies in her sun-browned face. “I confess I wasn’t expecting to see you again today.”
“You left your coat and hat on the beach,” he said, handing her the garments. “I thought you might have need of them … or at least your coat,” he added pointedly. “But I see you’ve rectified the situation.”
He had intended conciliation, but her greeting had been so derisory that he responded with immediate punishment, reminding her of those moments on the back of his horse … of her passionate response to the most improper attentions. His eyes skimmed pointedly over her breast, and the slight flush that warmed her cheeks was satisfaction enough. But her recovery was swift.
“I have no particular need of the coat, my lord. But I’m grateful for what’s in the pocket.” She held up the garment. “Rosie, I have some of Mrs. Woods’s apple tartlets for you.”
“Oh,” Sylvester said in confusion. “I’m afraid I ate them.”
“You ate them?” Theo stared at him in surprise. “But they were in my pocket. They were for Rosie.”
Sylvester scratched his head, looking so confounded that Elinor was hard-pressed to keep a straight face. “I do beg your pardon,” he said. “But they were so tempting … and I thought you’d abandoned them.” He looked at Rosie, who was gazing up at him from behind her glasses with an expression of puzzled inquiry.
“Forgive me, Lady Rosalind….” That sounded absurd; the child was holding a fistful of snails in one grubby palm. He tried again. “Rosie, I’m very sorry. I didn’t realize they were for you.”
Rosie said solemnly, “That’s all right. It wasn’t as if they’d been promised, or anything. They were just going to be a surprise.”
Sylvester blinked. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
Theo went into a peal of laughter. “Yes … in Rosie-talk.”
“Oh.” He looked so chagrined that Theo took pity on him.
“Never mind,” she said. “Rosie and I will walk down to the Hare and Hounds this afternoon and beg some more from Mrs. Woods.”
“That will be my responsibility,” Sylvester said, remounting. “I’ll confess my thievery and beg a replacement. It’s the least reparation I can make.” He raised his hat. “I give you good day, Lady Belmont … Cousin Theo … Rosie.”
“’Bye,” Rosie said unconcernedly, her concentration now on the contents of her palm. “Oh …,” she said, suddenly looking up at him. “You aren’t in a hurry for us to move, are you? I have to move my museum to the dower house, and it might take a long time … because everything has to be packed up very carefully and carried by hand down the drive.”
“Rosie!” Elinor exclaimed.
It was Sylvester’s turn to laugh. “No, little cousin, I am not in the least anxious for you to leave the manor. I’m sure we can all manage to live in harmony for as long as it takes.” He shot his other cousin a quick, quirking smile. “Isn’t that so, cousin?”
“That remains to be seen, sir,” Theo said, but without conviction.
THE DOOR TO the earl’s bedroom stood open. Theo paused in the corridor outside. She’d been in that room many times, particularly in the weeks leading up to her grandfather’s death. She knew the elaborate carving of the bedposts, could trace in her mind’s eye the whorls and twists that her hand had played over during the interminable vigils she had kept by the bedside. She knew the rich serpentine designs on the embroidered canopy, matching the patterns in the Chinese carpet. She thought she knew every knot in the paneling, every thin fissure in the plaster ceiling.
The room was empty, and she stepped through the doorway, looking round. The furnishings hadn’t changed, and yet the room felt different. Her grandfather’s spirit no longer inhabited it, the faint musty smell of sickness and old age was gone. The new earl’s possessions were scattered round, his silver-backed hairbrushes on the dresser, his boot jack beside the armoire, unfamiliar books in the bookshelves.
Her eye fell on the portrait of her father in his dress uniform. It hung above the fireplace, opposite the bed, where her grandfather could see it whenever he was awake. He’d had it hung there, he’d told her once, so that it was the first thing he saw in the morning and the last thing at night. And it hung there now for the indifferent eyes of a Gilbraith.
The anger and frustration—inextricable with her grief and never far from the surface these days—rose anew, closing her throat, contracting her scalp, filling her eyes with bitter tears. She stepped farther into the room, drawing close to the portrait. Viscount Belmont smiled out at her, his hand on his sword, his blue eyes as clear as rainwashed pools. She tried to conjure up her own memories of that face, of his voice, of his scent. She could remember his arms round her when he lifted her onto her pony. She thought she could remember his voice, deep and warm, calling her his madcap Theo….
“Can I help you, cousin?”
She spun round at the earl’s slightly ironic voice behind her. She had no right to be in this room … not anymore … not without an invitation from its present owner. She looked at him blindly, seeing not Sylvester Gilbraith but the embodiment and cause of her grief and the deep rage that accompanied it.
She flung out a hand as if to ward him off and moved to push past him.
“Hey, not so fast!” He caught her arm, turning her sharply to face him. “What are you doing in my room, Theo?”
“What do you think I’m doing, my lord?
” she demanded. “Stealing something? Spying on you, perhaps?”
“Don’t be foolish,” he said brusquely. “Were you looking for me?”
“Why ever would I want to do that?” she demanded, her voice heavy with scorn and the tears she wouldn’t shed. “If I never laid eyes on you again, I’d be very happy, Lord Stoneridge.”
Sylvester’s quick indrawn breath told her she’d gone too far, but she didn’t care, blindly wanting to wound the man who was standing where her father should be standing. She pulled her arm free and pushed him aside.
Sylvester seized her plait, preventing further progress. “No, you don’t,” he said furiously. “I am sick to death of this incivility. What the hell have I done to deserve it?”
“You don’t have to do anything … you just have to be” she exclaimed in a low voice. “And if you’re too insensitive to understand that, sir, let me tell you that that’s my father’s portrait hanging on your wall!”
Startled, he turned to look behind him, dropping her braid. Theo took advantage of her release and left him, almost running in her anxiety to get away before she was overcome by her tears.
Sylvester swore softly, but he made no attempt to go after her. He examined the portrait, wishing he’d noticed it early enough to avert that scene. He hadn’t realized who it was. The house was full of family portraits.
He went in search of Foster. “Have the portrait of Viscount Belmont moved into Lady Theo’s room, Foster. Unless Lady Belmont would prefer it.”
“Lady Belmont has her own pictures of the late viscount, my lord,” Foster informed him gravely. “But I’m sure Lady Theo will appreciate the gesture.”
“Yes … good,” the earl muttered.
That done, he turned his thoughts to dealing with Theo. He’d been in the house two days, and whenever Theo couldn’t manage to avoid him, she was abominably rude to him. So far, he’d failed to persuade her even to ride round the estate with him. It was hardly a promising courtship. Perhaps that devious old devil had known he’d be on a fool’s quest and had relished the thought of making a laughingstock of his unknown but detested heir.
He strode through the open doors of the drawing room onto the long stone terrace. Perhaps that was it, and he’d fallen into the trap through greed … through need, he amended, sitting on the low stone wall separating the terrace from the sweep of green lawn.
And it wasn’t just the need for money. He needed a purpose, a function, in the world, and managing an estate the size of Stoneridge would take all his skills. He’d joined the army at the beginning of the war—or rather the first Revolutionary war. The present battle against Napoleon was a different matter from those early skirmishes with the untried ragtag French revolutionaries. For fifteen years the army had been his life. There’d been women … some passionate affairs … but they’d been part of the heady excitement of the war, the deprivations, the terrors, the fierce exultations of victory. He’d felt no urge to marry, to set up his nursery. For the last twelve years, after the death of Kit Belmont, he’d known he would come into the Stoneridge title and inheritance, and he’d been content to wait for that time before committing himself to marriage, children, and new responsibilities.
And then Vimiera had happened—twelve months in a stinking French jail in Toulouse. And then the court-martial.
He stood up abruptly, beginning to pace the length of the terrace. He’d been acquitted of cowardice. But not in the hearts and minds of his peers. He’d resigned his commission, ostensibly because of the lingering effects of his head wound, but everyone knew the real reason. He couldn’t endure the turned shoulders. He would have returned to the Peninsula a marked man, the story flying ahead of him. There would be endless humiliations, some small, some large. And he didn’t have the courage to face them down.
Not when he didn’t know what had happened. How could he defend himself when he didn’t know exactly what had happened?
Gerard had said he was on his way with reinforcements … that he hadn’t delayed. But, goddammit, if there’d been no delay, how the hell had he been cut off so completely? He’d been hanging on for support as his men fell around him…. He could remember thinking …
Sylvester pressed his fingers into his temples, feeling the ominous tightening in the skin. Thinking what? He could remember nothing clearly of that afternoon, and yet something was there, a shadow of knowledge.
“Is something wrong, Lord Stoneridge?”
Elinor’s soft voice broke into the spiraling confusion of his thoughts. He looked up, his expression dazed, his fingers still massaging his temples.
“You don’t look well,” she said, coming swiftly toward him. She reached up to lay a cool hand on his brow. His skin was clammy, and he was as pale as a ghost, his eyes no longer cool and penetrating, but shadowed with that pain she’d sensed in him from the beginning.
He shook his head, trying to calm his rioting thoughts and the desperate struggle for memory. Elinor’s concerned expression penetrated the confusion, and her hand was cool on his brow. Mercifully, he felt the tension behind his temples ease, and he knew that this time he was going to be spared the agony.
“I’m quite well, thank you, ma’am,” he said, forcing a smile. “A troublesome memory, that’s all.”
Elinor didn’t press it. “Has Theo introduced you to Mr. Beaumont, the bailiff, as yet?”
“Your daughter, ma’am, has not seen fit to address a civil word to me in the last three days,” he said caustically. “Let alone offer me any assistance in learning about the estate. I should tell you that I begin to lose patience.”
“Well, perhaps that’s for the best,” Elinor said in a musing tone. “Something needs to shock her out of her present frame of mind.” She bent down and pulled an errant weed from between the flagstones.
“I don’t think I understand you, Lady Belmont.”
Elinor straightened, examining the weed with a frowning concentration that it hardly warranted. “Theo hasn’t grieved properly for her grandfather yet, Lord Stoneridge. I suspect she won’t be herself again until she’s able to do so. Perhaps we’ve indulged her sufficiently and it’s time to provoke that grieving.”
“I’m still not sure I understand you.” Sylvester knew he was being given some valuable advice but wasn’t quite sure what he was to do with it.
Elinor smiled slightly. “Follow your instincts, Lord Stoneridge, and see where they take you.”
“Mama, the seamstress is here.” Emily appeared round the corner of the terrace, “She has the samples for the new curtains, and there’s one I particularly … Oh, good morning, Lord Stoneridge. I beg your pardon for interrupting.” Her tone lost much of its exuberance as she offered him a small bow. “I didn’t realize you were talking with Mama.”
“Please don’t apologize, cousin,” he said, returning her bow. “Your mother and I were simply passing the time of day.”
Elinor linked her arm in her daughter’s, offering his lord, ship a half smile and a little nod, as if to say, You know what to do now. “We’ll meet at nuncheon, Lord Stoneridge.”
Sylvester watched them go off arm in arm, Lady Belmont seemed to think she’d been perfectly clear, but for the life of him, he couldn’t interpret her words.
He strolled across the lawn, intending to walk to the cliff top, hoping that the sea air and fresh breeze would bring enlightenment. He hadn’t gone more than twenty feet before he tripped over a pair of sturdy stockinged legs sticking out from beneath a bush.
“Ouch! You made me drop it!” An indignant Rosie crawled backward out of the bush and glared up at him, the sun glinting off her lenses. “You made me drop it,” she repeated.
“Drop what?”
“A grasshopper. It was sawing its back legs together … that’s how they make that noise. I most particularly wanted it for my museum. Theo was going to help me mount it.”
Sylvester frowned at this other member of the Belmont family who held him in scant regard. “Well, I beg your pard
on, but your feet were sticking out like a booby trap.”
“Well, only a booby wouldn’t have been looking where he was going,” the child said, diving headlong back beneath the bush.
Sylvester raised his eyes heavenward. How was it that two daughters had tongues like razors and the other two were apparently as sweet-natured and malleable as a man could wish? And why, oh why, couldn’t fate have offered him one of the sweet ones?
“There’s no call to be uncivil,” he said to the stockinged legs.
“I wasn’t,” came the muffled response. “But booby traps catch boobies, don’t they? Otherwise they wouldn’t be called that, would they?”
“There is a certain inexorable logic in that,” he said with a twitch of his lips. “Nevertheless, child, you could find a more courteous way to make your point.”
Shaking his head, Sylvester continued on his way.
Theo didn’t appear at nuncheon, but no one seemed troubled by her absence. “I expect she’s been offered hospitality with one of the tenant farmers, my lord,” Clarissa said in answer to the earl’s question. Her voice was a little cool, as if he had no right to question her sister’s whereabouts. They had a way of closing ranks, these Belmonts.
“Theo’s at home in every kitchen on the estate, sir,” Emily said. “She always has been … since she was a little girl.”
“I see.” Frowning, Sylvester turned his attention to the ham in front of him. “May I carve you some ham, Lady Belmont?”
While he was sitting around the table making polite small talk and carving ham like some ancient paterfamilias, his energetic, managing young cousin was dealing with the business that kept the establishment going. It wasn’t to be tolerated another day.
Elinor accepted a wafer-thin slice of ham, noticing the tautness of his mouth, the jumping muscle in his drawn cheek. She could guess the direction of his thoughts. Whether Theo agreed to marry the Earl of Stoneridge or not, Stoneridge Manor was no longer hers, and Elinor suspected that its lord was soon going to make that clear to her daughter in no uncertain terms.
