Instructions were dispensed, that Ashley was to see to her meal and stir up a new wash for the compress before Anthony finally consigned his charge over to his sister’s care. He vacated the chamber, though not too willingly, for Ashley had to give him a firm push out the door when he continued to linger.
At the loud scraping of metal, the bolt was fastened over the door and the two women were left alone in the room.
Chapter 8
E dith let out a boisterous giggle. Her uncle dandled her on his knee, and the little chit was delighted with every moment of her imaginative play as a jockey on a race horse.
“More, more,” she demanded when Anthony took a repose to sample his wine.
“That’s enough, Edith,” Daniel informed his eldest daughter. “Now off to the nursery with you. Hop to it.”
Daniel signaled for the governess to fetch the child and escort her from the dining hall and into the nursery, where her meal awaited.
“But I don’t want to go,” whined Edith, and promptly latched onto her uncle’s armrest to demonstrate her discontent. She refused to relinquish her hold, despite the persistent tugs of her governess.
“Now, Edith, behave yourself like a proper young lady.”
Anthony heard the child snort in response to her father’s command and withheld his grin. Daniel’s most authoritative voice, in fact, held no authority at all. The man didn’t have it in him to rule with a stern hand, and Edith was well aware of that truth. She stubbornly refused to give way, and an exasperated Daniel finally rose from his seat to pry the child’s fingers loose himself. But Anthony gestured for his brother-in-law to hold steady for a moment, then whispered into his niece’s ear.
Edith listened patiently, and with a wide, crooked grin, surrendered her grip on the armrest, and contently skipped from the room, governess in tow.
A dazzled Daniel sunk slowly into his seat. “Pray, what did you say to her?”
Anthony shrugged. “Just a few magical words.”
“Well, out with them. There’s been many a’times I’ve needed some magical words to handle that child, so don’t keep them to yourself.”
“I simply told her, if she behaved like a good little girl, her father would give her Guenevere for her upcoming birthday.”
Reginald Kennington, the earl of Wenhem, seated at the head of the long rosewood table, let out a hoot of husky laughter at his son-in-law’s plummeting jaw. “My boy’s fixed you but good, hasn’t he, Winthrop?”
Daniel continued to gawk. “But that pony will cost me in excess of three hundred pounds!”
Anthony only grinned. “A small price to pay for a child’s happiness.”
“I’m glad to hear her uncle thinks so, because he’s going to pay for half the expense.”
“Agreed.”
The men reached over the table to clink glasses and cement the deal.
The old earl shook his head in light amusement. “That chit has you two gents coiled around her little finger.”
Two sets of brows raised at the aging earl.
“I’m well aware of the irony,” Reginald remarked curtly, his humor abating at the thought of the pending ball he was forced to finance. “But in my defense, Cecilia is much older and more skillful at manipulation.”
It was unanimous. They were all docile when it came to the wishes of the females in their lives. No one was immune from tears, smiles, or batting eyelashes.
But warm memories soon faded, as a grousing Reginald interposed, “Speaking of the demands of ladies, I haven’t had a moment’s peace in days. There’s a knock on my study door every two minutes. Something is always missing, or has yet to arrive, or has yet to be bought. I hate this blasted ball.”
Daniel chuckled. “By tomorrow evening it will all be over.”
The old man scoffed. “A veritable eternity for someone my age.”
“You have many years left in you,” said Anthony.
The seventy-two-year-old Reginald cast his son a dubious glance. “Humph. If this ball doesn’t kill me, then we’ll just see about your prediction. Your sister Ashley’s début was decent, but Cecilia’s will be a monstrosity.”
A monstrosity indeed, making Anthony’s attempts to veil Sabrina all the more intricate. But not impossible. With a little help from Ashley, he’d continue to keep his gypsy safely stowed away. Thus far, all was progressing as planned. His estrangement from the household, for instance, hadn’t garnered much attention from his kin. The male members of the family, not surprisingly, thought nothing of his absence during the last two meals, quite envious, in fact, that he’d managed to escape the grueling ordeals, which consisted of little more than prolonged discussions over decorations, menus, and last-minute alterations to guest lists. As for the female members, his vacant chair had brought about a single demand before each dining as to his whereabouts, which Ashley had skillfully deflected to other more pressing concerns over the approaching revelry. And so, swiftly forgotten, the viscount had escaped any exhaustive questioning, while his present appearance at luncheon would summarily dispense with any lingering doubts as to his welfare.
“I hate to bring up such a subject at this time,” said Reginald, the lull in the conversation having brought more solemn issues to his mind. “But it must be dealt with, and I see no reason to postpone the inevitable.”
Anthony sighed, fully expecting to hear what his father was going to say next.
“I hope you will find time during your stay to speak with my steward, Anthony. You will one day inherit the estate and you must be well acquainted with all managerial affairs.”
“I know, father,” Anthony concurred, albeit reluctantly. Life in the country may bring with it more space to roam, but that space was dotted with naught but a humdrum assortment of blossoms and trees, neither of which sparked much exuberance in a man like Anthony, who’d always preferred to reside in the city, much to his father’s displeasure. The earl had hoped his son and heir would eventually demonstrate some enthusiasm for the vast property he was destined to inherit, but Anthony’s interests in the estate were minimal at best, and his father was well aware of that unfortunate reality. Unable to conform to the monotony of country life, the viscount tended to find his world shrinking whenever he was forced to review the accounting books or speak to the land steward. He saw no reason to diddle away his time hunched over an endless procession of numbers. That’s why an administrator was hired to oversee the estate. And so long as the administrator counted every crop sold at market, Anthony need not have to.
“You must be especially stern when it comes to the finances of your future bride,” Reginald resumed to narrate the list of imperative reasons why his son should continue with his tutelage. “The next Lady Wenhem will naturally live at a certain standard, but you mustn’t allow her to cajole you into frivolous expenses—like the current Lady Wenhem,” he grumbled with a hint of self-chastisement. “Our wealth isn’t without limits. You must make that clear.”
“I will, Father.”
“Yes, well, so long as we understand each other. I expect this estate to be in our family for many generations to come.” And then he uttered in all gravity, “I will haunt you from the grave should you fall into bankruptcy. Mark my words, I will.”
Anthony swirled the wine in his glass. “I won’t mind a ghostly visit from you once in a while.”
“You’ll mind when I bring your mother’s spirit along to help with the haunting.”
A dire threat indeed, Anthony reflected, as the image of his parents’ specters trailing behind him for the rest of his life invaded his thoughts.
“I’ll see your steward before I return to London.”
Reginald gave a swift nod of approval, while Daniel tried his damnedest to suppress his laughter, lifting his wine glass to conceal his smirk.
At the sound of approaching footsteps, the gentlemen rose from their seats to greet the arriving ladies, only to find it was the butler, Binste, who appeared in the doorway instead.
&
nbsp; Three grumbling men returned to their chairs.
“A letter has arrived for you, Lord Hastings.”
Silver tray in hand, Binste made his way over to the viscount and presented him with the illustrious platter.
With a nod of thanks, Anthony took the folded parchments before the stoic butler retracted his steps and disappeared back into the corridor.
“Who is it from?” came the curious query from his brother-in-law, who leaned over the table to try and catch a better glimpse of the correspondence.
Anthony had yet to determine that himself. The directions were a scrawling mess. It was a marvel the letter had found its way into his hands at all.
He broke open the red wax seal and stared at the rambling hieroglyphics, trying to make some sense of the letter’s baffling content. Unable to comprehend anything, though, he quickly flipped to the last page and noted the signature.
He smiled. “It’s from Vincent.”
“And how is the old boy?” was heard from the earl.
“I’m not quite sure,” said Anthony, still bewildered over his best friend’s inscrutable penmanship.
Vincent Longhurst must have been foxed when he’d scribbled three parchments full of illegible handwriting. Anthony could decipher no more than a few fragments: lady bird, hobble, return in time to…He crinkled his brow at the mysterious last word. It was hopeless.
He folded the letter and tucked it away in his inner breast pocket. The epistle was unlikely to be all that important. Vincent loved to reveal the current on-dit of his life, especially when he was ape-drunk, and odds were, the pages contained another haphazard account of his latest torrid affair. Anthony would hear all about the tryst soon enough, once he returned to London and rejoined his comrade.
“Vincent’s doing just fine,” Anthony assured the other men at the table. “He sends his warm regards.”
And so, with the mystery of the letter’s author revealed, the gentlemen returned their attentions to more immediate concerns.
“By and by, where are the ladies?” Daniel inquired at that point, glancing over his shoulder to the wide open door and the empty corridor beyond.
“Heaven only knows,” muttered Reginald, and set his furrowed hands atop his cane.
“Ashley will not be joining us for luncheon,” said Anthony, hoping the fib he was about to impart would be accepted without much doubt, considering the hubbub reigning throughout the house. “Cecelia has set her to work on yet another decorative task.”
“The poor dear,” murmured her husband. “She’s been overwrought these last few days. Do you know, I’ve observed her on one occasion pinching food to keep with her during the tiresome day.”
An aghast Lord Wenhem slumped back into his chair. “Good gracious, but this ball will ruin us all.”
Anthony lifted his wine to his lips. Eager to steer the discourse in a different direction, he decided it was time to tend to his other commitment and convince his brother-in-law to take his wife on that trip to Paris she’d been longing for. It was a few minutes later, with the help of the earl, that a thoroughly outnumbered and outwitted Daniel ungraciously conceded to the mainland trip. And when his absolute aversion to great bodies of water was taken into consideration, it was a sheer wonder that the two Kennington men were able to persuade their poor kin to embark on the voyage at all.
It was another few minutes before scurrying feet were heard making their way down the hall, and three famished gents rose in expectation of their remaining party, only to find a belated Cecelia appear under the doorframe.
“Where is your mother?” demanded Reginald.
“Looking for—” She stopped just short of the table when she noticed her brother. “Oh, here you are. Mama has gone in search of you for luncheon.”
“Humph. I rescind my earlier prediction.” Reginald sunk back into his seat. “It’s not the ball which will kill me but starvation.”
“Excuse me.”
Anthony was already out of his chair and stalking toward the end of the elongated room, when Reginald called out, “What’s wrong?”
But in his haste, Anthony offered no explanation, and three sets of curious gazes followed his large frame out the door.
“What was that all about?” Cecelia took her seat, and with a flick of her wrist, unfurled a white linen napkin and placed it over her lap, protecting the pale green of her muslin gown.
“Anthony’s probably off to the kitchen to fetch his meal,” surmised a disgruntled Daniel.
“Smart boy,” came from Reginald. “If hobbling on my cane didn’t take so long, I’d make my way over to the kitchen to dine myself.”
A bowl of cider wash nestled in her hands, Ashley stood by the bedpost, her sharp forest-green eyes honing in on the apprehensive occupant.
“My brother has taken great pains to protect you,” came the stiff assertion. “I do hope you appreciate his efforts.”
Sabrina said nothing in reply. Those so-called pains didn’t seem all that great, not when she felt so unprotected.
Setting the bowl on the table beside the bed, Ashley wrung the excess liquid from the linen and placed it over the patient’s brow. “You understand, of course, my brother should not have brought you here. A physician’s care would have been more appropriate.”
On that matter the two could agree. Sabrina might deplore the idea of being under the care of a gajo healer, for such men were often inept, but she’d much prefer that arrangement to her present predicament. Whatever it was that Anthony was making her feel, a physician could do no worse.
Ashley’s staid glare soon withered. Her eyes darted from the bed to the floor, and she began to chew on her bottom lip.
“With you here, it’s most…well, you see…”
The woman’s newfound struggle for words brought more worries to Sabrina’s mind, and she scrunched the bed sheets hard between her fingers. But then the obvious broke through her uneven thoughts and she whispered, “I know about the ball tomorrow.”
“It’s not the ball.”
“Then what is it?”
“Anthony’s reputation, is all.” Ashley wrung her moist fingers. “Women tend to fall at his feet.”
“I’m not clumsy.”
Ashley gave her a blank look. “No, I mean to say women lose their hearts to the viscount. He has this irresistible allure when he smiles and ladies fall under his charms and my brother isn’t one to resist an invitation…It’s all rather fickle,” she rounded off hastily.
Sabrina’s dark brows pinned together in confusion. “An invitation?”
A tinge of color stretched over high-rounded cheekbones. “Oh, lud!” Ashley whirled around and hastened over to a window, muttering to herself, “This is all so vexing. My brother knows his place, surely. To think that he would…with a…even if she offered to…”
Ashley made her way back over to the bed, her steps steady and deliberate. She took in a deep breath, and said firmly, “This is most improper but it must be said, and the burden falls upon me to deliver the counsel. Anthony is a rake.”
Sabrina blinked in surprise.
With that last tidbit of information now in the open, Ashley seemed a little more at ease and recommenced with her sermon. “My brother enjoys the company of a woman—more than he should—and you may find yourself unable to withstand his inherent charms. I would advise you to look past his smiles, for he treats all women in a similar fashion.” Her fingers knitted tightly. “Furthermore, my brother is not one to refuse an invitation…to resist an affair with a fawning young lady—a vice I do not approve of. I recommend you keep your wits about you and my brother at bay. Think of him solely as your temporary guardian.” The oration at an end, she let loose a long-winded sigh of relief. “I’ll let you rest now.”
Ashley hastened back to the writing desk, where she proceeded to cap the vials of ingredients used to prepare the cider wash.
Bemused, Sabrina could only stare at the pale violet of the muslin-clad figure. It took her anot
her moment of reflection before the full impact of Ashley’s words walloped her with startling clarity.
There was an unexpected rush of peculiar emotions that clustered in her chest, making it difficult to breathe. A fawning young lady? Is that what Ashley thought of her? A wanton ready to hurl herself at the viscount?
Sabrina didn’t think it was possible, but her whole body was blushing at that point. She wanted to disappear under the covers and never emerge. To be considered something so shameless? Why, it was no better than being called a “filthy gypsy.”
And then it struck her. Ashley did see her as nothing but a filthy gypsy. All those murmurings of one’s proper “place” were her desperate attempts to convince herself of her brother’s respectable behavior, that he would never stoop so far below his rank as to consort with a mere gypsy. But Ashley had failed to convince herself of such a thing, and had resolved to caution the trespassing gypsy instead.
If Ashley held her in such dismal esteem, what, then, must Anthony think of a half-naked gypsy in his bed? An easy conquest? Did he expect payment for all his efforts to conceal her with a night of…
She couldn’t even bring herself to consider the thought. Oh, curse those blasted mongrels who’d chased her in the woods! Had it not been for their cruel persistence, she would never have found herself in this predicament, grappling with such a flurry of questions and fears.
There was a firm rap at the door. The mayhem in Sabrina’s soul was abruptly put aside as her wide eyes darted to the entrance.
“Anthony, I insist you join the family for luncheon.”
“Mama!” a panicked Ashley whispered.
The rattling of the door handle was followed by another persistent set of knocks. The trapped women exchanged horrified glances.
“Anthony? What is the matter? Open this door at once.”
“Mother!” a distant voice echoed from the other side of the barrier.
There was a brief pause before a confused woman demanded, “Anthony, if you are out here, then who is in your room?”
A Forbidden Love Page 7
