Her Gilded Prison (Daughters of Sin Book 1)

by Beverley Oakley

  Lord Partington slapped his thigh. “She’ll lead you a merry dance and don’t say I didn’t warn you, but it’s a satisfactory situation all ‘round. Her dowry is generous but you’ll need money in the meantime. I’ll arrange for a small stipend that’ll keep you until...something more formal comes to pass.”

  Stephen saw his chance. “My lord, I’ve one outstanding debt that needs attending to. ”

  His Lordship swung round in the saddle, his expression none too pleased. “Dunned, are you? But of course, why did I not expect it? You’re your mother’s son after all.”

  “I hope I favor my father,” Stephen said stiffly. “However last week at Sir Archie Ledger’s house party I was prevailed upon to make a foolish bet.”

  “Foolish, eh?” His Lordship raised his eyebrows.

  After some hesitation, Stephen finally admitted, “I bet a thousand on a spider and lost.” The flush that stole up his neck burned as he stared straight ahead. Put like this his folly seemed extreme.

  “A spider! Pity you weren’t an expert on the subject of arachnids, then, boy.”

  “With respect, my lord, I consider myself quite an expert. The outcome was astonishing and, I believe, engineered in Sir Archie’s favor. Nevertheless, the fact is that I lost the bet and I owe Sir Archie a thousand pounds.”

  Stephen cringed at Lord Partington’s incisive look. He’d never lost so much in a single wager but he’d been so sure of a victory that would have helped him repay a loan from his grandmother. Not that he intended mentioning that to His Lordship. Fortunately it was a trifle in comparison.

  His Lordship settled back into his saddle and said in a resigned tone, “I’ll have my bank arrange a letter of credit. You’re an expert on the subject of arachnids, then, are you? A passing fancy of last week?”

  “No, my lord.” Stephen forded a small stream in Lord Partington’s wake. “For some unexplained reason I’ve been fascinated by spiders since I was a child. I had a collection, to my mother’s horror, which I studied endlessly. Therefore I was convinced that, having observed the mating spiders, we would soon see the newly impregnated female devour the male. Sir Archie said this would not occur, that the male sex was dominant in every arena and he would wager this was another example.

  “We remained to watch what would transpire, however I was detained for some time by Lady Julia and when I returned half an hour later the male spider appeared to be making a judicious exit, sated and quite intact. I, however, was suspicious of what I judged to be tampering of the web. Nevertheless, Sir Archie prevailed and I was declared the loser of the bet.”

  Lord Partington’s complexion had grown florid. “Sir Archie Ledger,” he muttered. “Floppy Ledger’s son. The little weasel sounds like his father.” He clicked his tongue and urged his mount over a fallen log, shouting back over his shoulder, “You’ll invite him here and prove your theory sound.”

  Stephen drew level and his uncle twisted in the saddle, warming to his theme as they continued at a leisurely canter. “A male arachnid, especially if it’s small, always comes off second best. You were cheated. Indeed, I’ll not hand over such a sum if your version of matters proves true.”

  “Oh, it’s quite true, and I’d happily see you invite him here, my lord, to prove it.”

  “We’ll need examples so the boy can see with his own eyes that he can’t bamboozle us. Ask Araminta to start gathering a collection.”

  They laughed. Amusement, however, turned to admiration after they returned to the house to propose the idea and Hetty rose to the challenge. Araminta declared roundly that she’d do so only on pain of death.

  “Not even to please me?” Stephen asked with a suitably cajoling smile.

  “You have a lot to learn, if that’s how you think you’ll win me,” she declared with a sly look beneath lowered lashes.

  Nevertheless, Stephen was satisfied by her response. Araminta had all but stated how things stood. In a few days the time would be right. He’d ask for her hand and all would be settled in his world. Even the debt was no longer a niggling boil that needed lancing.

  Returning later that night from The Slippery Green Toad after a couple of pots of porter, Stephen was reminded that not everyone was as fortunate. The evening was still light and he was in the east paddock closest to the house when the sound of weeping interspersed with the soft, snuffly noises of a horse caught his attention.

  Stephen stepped quietly round the corner of the barn and peered across to where a hitherto unknown gray mare was nuzzling the neck of, if he wasn’t seeing things, his mistress of Partington Hall.

  Lady Partington was in evening dress. She must have left the house on a sudden whim before dinner. A strangely compelling desire indeed, for as he drew nearer, Stephen saw that her silk slippers were completely covered in mud and filth.

  “Lady Partington?” he said without thinking she may wish for privacy. However, her forlorn stance and the force of her weeping demanded that he step forward to render what assistance or comfort he could. “Is anything the matter?”

  When she merely raised a baleful eye from above the straggly mane of the gray mare he added, self-deprecatingly, “Of course, I realize something’s the matter otherwise you’d not be crying or have ruined your evening slippers. Whose mare is this?”

  “Her name’s Bunty and His Lordship bought her this afternoon for Araminta. She’s not yet seen it but it will a mighty fine victory for her.”

  He wondered at the bitterness in her tone. “Miss Araminta already has a fine mare. Does she need another?”

  “That’s of no account when Araminta wants something. My husband will deny her nothing and now he has bought her this, which belonged to someone who has had to go away. It’s an insult to me. A cruel blow though Humphry does not see it that way. He’d consider such talk hysterical. He’s always thought me overstrung and yet I’ve maintained my dignity in the face of his continual denigration.”

  Her words became muffled as she buried her face in the docile mare’s flank. It seemed she had no wish to censor what she said but would drown her words instead.

  Stephen was not unused to comforting weeping women. In fact, this was a favored ploy usually resulting in said weeping woman throwing herself into his arms. Stephen was generally quite happy to render his assistance. However he now stood before his benefactress. In the half-light with her hair ruffled out of its careful coiffure and the utterly desperate vision of misery she presented, Stephen couldn’t help himself.

  He put his hands on her shoulders and drew her round to face him. “My dear Lady Partington,” he murmured, frowning into soft, doe-brown eyes that bore soulfully into his. “I’m sure your husband had no intention of causing you such heartbreak. If you wished for a mare of your own why not just ask? His Lordship is a generous man.”

  Lady Partington rested her forehead against his chest. “Generous, indeed!” She trembled. “Loyal would be a better way of describing him yet in this case it is not a compliment to me.” She drew in a shuddering breath. “Had I known his heart was engaged elsewhere when he offered for me, I’d never have agreed to the contract.”

  The evening twilight and the lack of formality in their surroundings added to the sense of unreality. This was neither a conversation for the drawing room, the great outdoors or one to be had by two people in their requisite stations. But Lady Partington had clearly cast convention to the wind.

  For now anyway.

  With a great sigh she twisted out of Stephen’s embrace. She seemed neither embarrassed nor inclined to invite his confidence. Just unutterably weary. “I’ll have to attend to my appearance before I present myself for dinner.”

  Stephen rubbed his chin, unsure what to do next. “Perhaps you should plead a megrim, ma’am, in view of your distress.”

  She gave him a wry smile. “Distress is a general state for me.” She seemed to register Stephen’s lack of surety and put her hand to his cheek as if to return the gesture of comfort. “I think you are kinder at he
art than I gave you credit for. Perhaps you will be good for the Grange and for Araminta—if that is what you want.”

  In the semi dark, Stephen stroked the mare’s flank as he watched Lady Partington walk slowly toward the house. She carried herself with grace, the skirts of her crimson dress frothing around her ankles, and a sudden image visited him of her dark-gold tresses swinging around her hips. A surge of some identified feeling for her rose up in his breast, truncated by the sound of running footsteps from the opposite direction.

  “Bunty! Oh, you darling horse!” With a cry of joy, Araminta threw herself upon the horse’s neck and kissed the mare rapturously. It was a moment before she realized she was not alone.

  “Cousin Stephen!” she cried, smiling. “What are you doing here?”

  “I heard your mama’s distress over this animal. I believe your father bought her for you this afternoon.”

  Dimples appeared in Araminta’s cheeks. “Isn’t she beautiful? The finest in the county, I believe.”

  “Your mama doesn’t share your enthusiasm.”

  Araminta made a noise of irritation. “If Mama were cleverer—or prettier—perhaps Papa would want to spend more time with us instead of giving horses and no doubt other gifts to the ladies he prefers.”

  Stephen studied her in amazement. Did she know what she was saying?

  Which was? Quickly he went over the aspersions suggested by Lady Partington. “Your father gave this horse to another lady?” he asked bluntly.

  “Yes. Mrs. Hazlett, who’s apparently had to go away. Anyway, that’s according to Mrs. Mortimer in the village, who told me Mrs. Hazlett was looking to sell darling Bunty.”

  “If you suspect your father gave Bunty to this Mrs. Hazlett, aren’t you concerned at the thought of upsetting your mother? I’m sure I wouldn’t like to think of my wife bestowing such generous gifts on another man.”

  Araminta swung round from her enthusiastic petting of the horse with a glare. “Don’t you see? It’s why I did it.” In response to Stephen’s look of confusion she went on, “I wanted to teach Mama a lesson. If she wants to keep Papa here with us she must try harder. She’s such a little dormouse, isn’t she?”

  Stephen found himself actively revolting against her sentiments. “I don’t think so.”

  Araminta’s jaw dropped. Deciding against arguing, she stepped closer to him. Only a foot separated them and they were hidden from the house. “You can kiss me if you like, Cousin Stephen.”

  She tilted up her chin and closed her eyes. Tendrils of desire snaked through him yet his heart wasn’t in it.

  When Hetty called from the back step he wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed.

  He drew back before Araminta did. “I shall have to be patient, shan’t I?”

  “And you shall be well rewarded for it, Mr. Cranbourne,” she promised in a whisper, giving his hand a quick squeeze before turning toward the house.

  * * * * *

  Through a haze of misery, Sybil observed the budding romance between Stephen and Araminta. Araminta made no secret of her feelings—that she wanted to be the next lady of the manor. She thought, too, that Araminta’s desire for the young man was genuine, which took the edge off her misery.

  Humphry’s thoughts echoed hers when he remarked after dinner, “How fortuitous that Araminta’s lofty ambitions will be grounded in true love.” Then he surprised her by adding, “Yet I wonder if Stephen is as smitten.”

  “Why, Humphry, I thought you imagined all men were in love with our daughter.” She liked to refer to Araminta like this, reinforcing the bond between them.

  Humphry toyed with his drink. “Oh, he’ll make her an offer before the end of the week,” he predicted. “Yet he seems distracted.”

  “By her beauty.”

  “No, something else.”

  Sybil stared. It was unusual for Humphry to notice anything going on around him at the Grange. A bitter knot lodged in her throat. Of course, his mistress had departed, exhausted by a condition which “only nine months would cure”. It was the only reason he was at her side so late this evening. Humphry would be chafing at the separation, however he’d soon invent an excuse to leave his family.

  She didn’t respond at first. Then, forcing a smile, agreed. “I suppose we are all a little distracted. Events have not run their usual course, have they, Humphry?”

  His expression was quizzical. They never referred to his mistress, even obliquely, so he chose to discount any possibility of a reference to Lizzy Hazlett, saying instead, “Yes, and he doesn’t disappoint, does he?”

  Sybil concurred without hesitation. “He is as charming as he is handsome. And he’s kind, too, Humphry. Surprisingly kind for a young man so used to having the ladies presumably throw themselves at him. I think he’s had a harder life than we’d imagine.”

  “Now you’re going overboard, my dear. I merely was comparing him with ghastly Edgar, who might have stood in his shoes had he not come out so badly at Corunna.”

  “I doubt he would, the way Araminta’s looking at Stephen.”

  Humphry’s mouth twitched. “No, I doubt Araminta would have looked at Edgar with quite such soulful eyes.” He studied the pair. Araminta looked dazzling in her white muslin gown with its green sash and matching emerald earrings. Her dark, glossy hair had been swept up into a becoming cluster of curls that fell from a topknot.

  She looked very innocent and very desirable, surely a heady mix, thought Sybil, wondering what elusive qualities enticed a man. Certainly she’d never possessed the right ones. In all her nearly forty years no man had ever looked at her twice.

  Humphry rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “But she’d have been standing there with exactly the same intentions had it been her cousin Edgar. We both know that.”

  Was that admiration? Sybil tilted her head. “Are you suggesting that Araminta’s ambition is greater than her discernment?”

  Humphry chuckled. “That’s exactly what I’m suggesting. I say ‘good on her’ for exercising all her wiles if that avenue will bring her happiness. Life would be a misery if we simply accepted our lot.”

  Sybil nearly spilled her drink. With a suspicious look at her husband’s empty glass, which the footman was currently refilling, she murmured, “You sometimes surprise me, Humphry, with your profound comments.”

  “Do I, my dear?” He glanced at Sybil, a small smile tugging the corners of his mouth. A spasm of some tiny fondness for him jerk to life deep within her.

  Sharply truncated when he said, still kindly, “As a boy my pater thought I’d surely grow out of my adolescent mooning and accept that duty was the only mantra. I was young, lacking experience of myself and of life. I knew no better. If that’s what pater believed, then surely it was true.” He sipped his drink, both philosophical and melancholic. “Sadly for both of us, I accepted the pater’s edict.” He patted his chest. “For this loyal heart was not made with room for you, Sybil, and for that I’ve always felt a trifle guilty.”

  Oh Lord, was she going to cry?

  She’d give her all right now to be able to respond, to pour out her desire for a love she was powerless to grasp and perhaps get something in return. Any love. Even an apologetic gesture of friendship. How dried-up, stale and superfluous she’d become. Here was not the place and no doubt Humphry had chosen to speak here for that reason.

  So she was relieved when he broke the mood by saying in an uncharacteristically complimentary tone, “You look mighty fetching, Sybil. I don’t know what it is but you’re looking finer than I’ve seen you in a while. What have you done to yourself?”

  It certainly wasn’t happiness that had improved her appearance. Her spirits were lower than they’d ever been but she realized she was favoring bolder colors and styling. Why? Purely because Stephen Cranbourne had complimented her?

  She fanned herself at the memory of their encounter that first day. No man other than Humphry had ever seen her without her clothes.

  Stephen should have recoiled
with horror from the sight of an old woman’s decaying body yet he’d been the opposite of either embarrassed or dismissive. He’d been positively charming.

  Recalling this, she raised her eyes just as Stephen glanced over at them. He looked young and very self-assured as he offered a half bow in acknowledgement, his eyes creasing into a smile, and Sybil, to her astonishment, blushed and was even more embarrassed when Humphry remarked, “I see you have won the admiration of our guest. He certainly speaks well of you while I, to my shame, just nod my head and agree. I take for granted the good works you do and the excellence with which you run the household, Sybil. I was surprised when Stephen himself observed you were quietly competent and efficient while asking nothing of those around you, as we took a walk the other day.”

  Pleasure made her sit straighter.

  Humphry put down his drink. “Of course, he has only his dissolute mama with which to compare you. Now, shall we retire and leave the young ones to while away a few more minutes without censorious eyes?” Sybil rose with him as he added, “You must call Hetty away too. I believe Stephen has something of importance to say to Araminta.”

  “But it’s only been a week.” How could Humphry know more than she? Besides, it was much too early. The furious beating of her heart and the cocktail of shock, surprise and...yes, resentment, took her by surprise. Her hand was shaking as she put down her glass.

  Humphry looked knowing. “I spoke to Araminta this morning and said she had two choices: to throw herself into her next season and try to snare a duke, which I told her she surely would with her looks and dowry. That would mean she’d be going to London in another month but that if she was prepared to remain a lowly viscountess at the Grange, she’d have to forgo London revels.”

  “Excuse me, ma’am.” Porter, the butler, stood half in the doorway. Sybil raised her eyebrows, waiting for him to go on, wondering what might have happened at such a late hour.

  “Well, what is it?” Humphry sounded suddenly tired and grumpy. He was like that when he’d had enough of Sybil’s company.

  “There is a visitor...”