“Away with you, Miss. You look a real treat. A sight for sore eyes indeed. And don’t you go ragging me, you like Almack’s.” Maybelle handed Sybille her gossamer thin shawl.
I do? Why has nobody told me? “Hmm.”
“You’re just tired. It gets you like that toward the end of the season I know. Why, remember last year? Fair frazzled you were. I’ll get one of Doctor Potton’s powders ready for when you get home, that’ll set you right as a trivet.”
“No need,” Sybille said fervently. “I’ll buck up, I promise.” I hope. And who wants to be like a trivet anyway? A ridiculous expression. Maybelle was fond of trotting out sayings she said her mother used.
“See you do.” Maybelle spoke with the familiarity only an old and trusted servant could get away with. “Now then, off you go, your maman will be waiting.”
Sybille had no doubt about that. Mijo might dislike Jacqueline Grey as much as Sybille, but she knew what was best for her girls. Today it was Sybille’s turn to suffer. Marielle, her twin, was in bed with a plaguey sore throat—or so she said—although for one protesting so vehemently she was ill, she looked remarkably chipper.
“Convenient,” Sybille said as she stood next to her twin’s bed.
Marielle, propped against the pillows, wearing a green silk wrapper, with her blonde hair tumbling over her upper body, contrived to look injured. “Not at all. I fear it puts a lot onto your shoulders.”
“So do I. You owe me,” Sybille said, as she kissed her sister. “You’re not even overwarm.”
“Sorry.”
“So you should be. Gah, I wonder if I have a headache coming on?”
“You will have after the musicale,” Marielle said. “I am sorry, Sybille, but I cannot go.”
Sybille nodded. After all there was nothing she could say, and with the rest of the family busy with whatever Mijo had declared they must do, she had no option but to put on a brave face.
Ten minutes later she joined her maman in the carriage.
“Therefore ma coeur, it is you who is the sacrificial calf,” Mijo said as they settled on the comfortable squabs and the carriage moved away from the house.
“Lamb,” Sybille said. She swore Mijo mangled the English language for amusement.
“Eh? Ah bien, you mean the animal, not the woman.” Mijo nodded. “Although Lady Caroline Lamb could easily be sacrificed I think.” She had no love for the overdramatic lady. “Yes, today you sacrifice your eardrums for the greater good of the family. If we did not show, gossip would start. Why are there no Birches? Have they had to retire to the country? Have they paid their servants?” Mijo sighed. “That is how little gossipy stories turn into scandals.” She tucked a tendril of Sybille’s hair into her chignon. “That is better.”
“And have we paid the servants?” Sybille ignored Mijo’s attention. Her hair would come lose soon enough, as the fine strands didn’t take well to being fastened up. It was the bane of her life. “Is there any cause for concern?” She knew as well as all her siblings how tight the family’s circumstances were. Each and every child had vowed to marry well and do their bit to save the name of Birch from being besmirched.
The problem was, Sybille acknowledged, she might well be the one of her siblings not to succeed. Oh she could, but would she? Sybille had long vowed that unless she had a marriage like her parents, she’d rather be an old maid and retire to the country—with cats. As she always sneezed if a cat came within three feet of her, that might not be the best idea she’d ever thought of. Nevertheless the other options, marriage—or worse, to someone she thought despicable—were not on the cards and marriage to that certain someone she had a tendre for was equally unlikely. She assumed he saw her as no different to all the other debs—lighthearted, light-headed and lacking intelligence—and treated her with the same casual indifference. That was also something she couldn’t accept. Indifference led to infidelity, the other major stumbling block in Sybille’s mind. No mistress would be part of her marriage.
“We have, and come what may, we will continue to do so.” Mijo had a decidedly militant gleam in her eyes. “Our servants are loyal and remain my first priority. However, how much longer we can remain in the capital, I’m not sure. I may need to invent an emergency in Devon to get us away for a few weeks. Just to regroup, you understand.”
“Yes, please,” Sybille said fervently. Although would it help? She rather thought it would only postpone her problems. Better to meet them head on. She thought briefly of the missive she had sent off that morning. Could it aid her? Sadly, she had no way of finding out until it was answered. Of course it might be ignored. She hoped not.
Mijo laughed, although to Sybille’s ears it sounded hollow. “I worry about my girls. Only Amalia wants to be here, and she is really too young to understand all the petty idiosyncrasies of the ton. The rest of you?” Mijo sighed. “You would all prefer Devon.” Her tone made it very clear she couldn’t understand their preferences. Sybille knew her mother loved their country home, but as she had grown up during the Terror in France she also enjoyed the excitements of the season. Her older daughters did not.
“Sorry, Maman. We are a trial, I know. I promise not to yawn or snore this afternoon. Or at Almack’s. Now, how’s that?”
Mijo made a very Gallic snort. “I trust none of my children would be so uncouth as to snore. Yawning behind a fan I can understand, especially at Mrs. Grey’s. But.” She held her hand up to forestall Sybille’s retort. “That is no reason not to attend. We are going.”
Sybille mentally rolled her eyes. Truly her maman knew her children well. At least, as Mijo was wont to say, she distributed the unpleasant things equally between them. With a shrug and a smile, Sybille decided she was very glad she carried a fan, gave in with good grace, and resigned herself to two hours of torture.
She got them. Why Mrs. Grey couldn’t open the purse strings and employ decent musicians and singers, Sybille had no idea. Instead the woman coerced friends, and family, and in truth anyone handy she could persuade—or blackmail—to take part to provide the entertainment. She’d only approached Sybille once, with an ingratiating smile and a demand she show her talents.
Sybille had looked around, checked no one else was in earshot and leaned toward the older woman. “You mean cheating at spillikins? Or my proficiency at Le Galop?” She mentioned both a children’s game and a scandalous dance her maman had taught her children one rainy day in Devon. It hadn’t crossed the channel, and as Mijo told them it wasn’t overtly mentioned in fashionable circles in any European country, not even in the East, where she thought it had begun, Sybille knew Jacqueline Grey would be dumbfounded.
“My maman would not permit it. She would never be so common.”
That had sent a red and dumbstruck Mrs. Grey away. She’d never approached any of the Birch children to perform again, but Sybille was often conscious of the woman’s metaphorical desire to stick a dagger between Sybille’s shoulder blades…at least she hoped it was metaphorical.
Nevertheless, Sybille thought as she tried hard not to wriggle, yawn, or show her boredom in any way, Le Galop would certainly enliven things.
By the time Mijo rose to leave, Sybille had a numb bottom and pins and needles in her toes. She wriggled them unobtrusively, and wished she could do the same with her rear. The chair might have had its rattan seat covered, albeit with a nasty shade of puce velvet, but it had no padding under the cloth.
Sybille gave a long sigh of relief as they descended the shallow steps from the entrance of the house to the street below. “That, Maman, must give me kudos and save me from any more attendances for quite a while. I swear I still have no feeling in my posterior. That chair was never meant to be sat upon for more than five minutes.”
Mijo patted her arm. “I’ll remember your sacrifice and absolve you from any such activities for a while. However, before you ask.” Sybille shut her mouth with a snap, and Mijo smiled. “You will go to Almack’s. How else can you be seen and noticed?”
>
Was it impolite to tell your maman you neither wanted to be seen or noticed? That in fact you wanted to hide until such times you felt you could breathe freely once more?
“Ladies.”
No please no. Not now. I need more time.
“My lord?” Mijo was at her most haughty.
Cornelius Bankfoot, resplendent in a puce waistcoat, reminiscent of Sybille‘s recent seat, scowled at her. “My dear ladies, you’re alone with no escort. Please allow me.”
No please no.
“Lady Birch, I’m so sorry we didn’t get here on time. Blame Arthur for our tardiness.” The dark, smooth-as-her-morning-chocolate voice made Sybille’s heart speed up. She spun around, and hoped her maman didn’t notice the heat she experienced as it covered her cheeks.
Bankfoot’s face darkened. “You think you can step in here, Jeavons?”
“Of course I don’t think it.” Thomas, Lord Jeavons stared at the other man. Sybille suddenly understood what people meant when they said someone exuded power. “I know it.”
Bankfoot turned the color of his waistcoat, and his cheeks puffed up as he tightened his lips. “I was about to escort the ladies. Your presence is not required.”
“Oh, you err, my dear Bankfoot. As I feel you often do.” Thom’s voice was full of menace.
Bankfoot took a step back, and Sybille smothered a grin at the first incredulous, but then murderous look on the man’s face. It wasn’t funny per se, and could bode ill for Thom, but it gave Sybille heart. Someone was able to play Bankfoot at his own game, and best him.
“Excuse us.” Thom turned his back on Bankfoot before the man could speak and put himself between Bankfoot and Mijo. Arthur Mitcham, who had stayed silent and watchful at Thom’s side moved to block Bankfoot from Sybille. Bankfoot hovered for a few seconds, took a sharp indrawn breath, spun on his heel and walked away. His back was ramrod straight, and he tapped his cane forcefully onto the pavement.
“Not a happy chappy,” Arthur remarked. “You best hope you don’t meet him in a dark alley, Thom. He’d have your guts for cat meat as soon as look at you.”
“He can try.” Thom shrugged. “Forget him. In every life strife occurs. He’d like to be mine.”
“Why?” Sybille couldn’t help asking him. He raised one eyebrow.
“I enjoyed the opera as a young man.”
“Ah.” Sybille knew her face was red, but her lips twitched. “And, I assume, the performers.”
“Only the female ones.”
She couldn’t help it. She giggled and covered her mouth with her hand. Only he could be so outrageous and get away with it.
“Thomas.” Mijo had obviously tried to speak in a censorious voice and not succeeded. “You are incorrigible.”
“Madame. Ravishing as ever. When are you going to leave Theo and run away with me?” He doffed his hat, bowed over Mijo’s hand and kissed it. Sybille almost took a step backward in astonishment at the sharp pang of envy that hit her.
It should be me. The thought startled her. It was her maman, for heaven’s sake. Who was devoted to her husband, Sybille’s papa.
Mijo tapped Thom on his cheek, and laughed. “Thomas, promise me you will never change. If I were to run with anyone, I vow it would be you.”
“Not me? Now I am inconsolable.” Arthur smote his forehead in a very theatrical fashion. “Sybille tell her, I’m so much better than this villain here.”
Sybille shook her head. “My lord, you are as bad as each other.”
Thom grinned and took hold of Sybille’s hand. “But I spread my favors around.” He bowed and looked up at her from under raised eyebrows. The heat in his eyes startled her. Startled, she noted, but it didn’t scare or make her skin crawl as a certain other’s glances did.
Arthur snorted. “That is perhaps not the thing to say to the ladies, Thom. You sound like an old roué.”
“Thank you,” Thom said dryly. “Luckily these ladies know what I mean.”
“Of course we do,” Mijo replied. “And, now can we avail ourselves of your company?”
“But of course, and to show I’m not a roué, or a cad, or any other word Arthur might now think to bandy about and sully my reputation even more in your eyes, I will graciously allow him to escort you, and I’ll escort Lady Sybille.”
“Of course you will.” Mijo nodded. “Via the park I think? As it is such a beautiful day.” She unfurled her parasol, took Arthur’s arm and walked along the street. Her light laugh floated back to Sybille. She shook her head. Her maman would never change.
“Shall we?” Thom took hold of her hand and kissed her fingers. The shock waves of his touch travelled through her, so fast she had to force herself not to sway toward him. “Come on.”
Sybille stared at Thom. “And that is you being gracious? I hope I never see you in the reverse.”
Thom slid her arm through his and tucked her hand between them. “You won’t. Now, what’s wrong and why are you so wary of Bankfoot? We all know he’s a cad, but how does it involve you?”
Sybille thought rapidly. This was not panning out as she’d anticipated. She stared at Arthur’s back, willing him to turn around. He of course didn’t, and continued on his way chatting to Mijo.
Damn it, I need Arthur’s help here. I’m not ready.
“Have you been busy all day, my lord?”
Chapter Three
Why was she looking at him so strangely? Thom noticed the tremble that shivered over her skin—like the ripples on the waters of the Serpentine when the breeze caught it—and the way her hand tightened on his arm. As he watched and waited she bit her lips, making them a rosy, and kissable target. What on earth was wrong? Surely Mijo hadn’t told her of his interest? Even Thom knew that was a sure way to put the back up of any Birch. Mijo had promised to keep his intentions to herself, and make sure no obstacles were put in his way. Hence attaching herself to Arthur.
He could have sworn Sybille looked relieved to see him, and enjoyed watching Bankfoot bested. Now though, she seemed distinctly nervous. And her query was strange in itself. Or was it?
“I left straight after breakfast to go to spar at Jackson’s. Yes, I know, a nasty brutish sport, but we gentlemen have strange tastes.”
She half smiled and he pressed on. “It’s a way to occupy our pea-brains until we can escort a beautiful young lady.”
“That, my lord, is doing it a bit brown,” Sybille said. “I accept I’m no antidote, but neither am I beautiful. Cecily is the beauty of the family. Marielle and I are passable.”
“More than passable, don’t sell yourself short, my dear. So why did you want to know what my day had involved? I assure you no opera singers are part of my life anymore. I’m much more discerning than that now.”
“You are?” There was a definite note of query in her tone.
“Oh yes,” Thom said with a snap. “I’m here with you.”
She stopped stock still and turned to face him. “Elucidate.”
“Walk, or we will attract all sorts of unwarranted attention.” Thom urged her forward with a slight tap on her rear. One no one would see and Sybille could accept or ignore easily. “Sally Jersey is in her barouche, near the park gates, with Emily Cowper. Do you think Sally is called ‘Silence’ because she keeps her mouth shut?” It was of course the opposite. Lady Jersey was renowned for her love of gossip.
“Hmm.” However Sybille allowed him to propel her onward so they were within a respectable, and acceptable distance of Mijo and Arthur. “I need to talk to you.”
He’d wondered if she’d bring the matter of the letter up. It was perhaps cruel, but it was why he’d deliberately not admitted to receiving it. Any move had to come from her. He’d gambled on piquing her interest. He hoped this meant he had.
“You do? When?”
“As soon as possible.” Sybille sighed. “I have to endure the Almack’s torture this evening. I don’t suppose?” She looked up at him with hope in her expression.
He let the silen
ce lengthen until they were almost upon Lady Jersey. She waved them over to where Arthur and Mijo were already conversing with the occupants of the barouche.
“You don’t suppose?” he prompted her.
“You could bear to be there as well?”
“I could, but there is nowhere we could converse in private.”
“I know, but if you could just be there, and be attentive you would be doing me a great service.”
I would? Why, I wonder? He hated to hear the pleading note in her voice.
“Why?”
“I can’t tell you. Not here.”
Thom swore he saw a sheen of tears in her eyes. He was lost and drowning. “I’ll be there.”
****
By the time he arrived at Almack’s with a still grumbling Arthur in tow, he judged Mijo and whichever children she coerced to attend would already be there. He wanted to see just what Sybille was worried about.
“Over by the long windows,” Arthur said as they progressed across the room. “Near that bloody Bankfoot. Why has he suddenly begun to get underfoot?”
“I don’t know,” Thom said. “My sister Eleanor likened him to a worm. We can of course, can, and will do if necessary, stamp on worms and make sure they do not regrow.”
“Indeed.” Arthur was silent for a second. “How is Eleanor?”
To Thom, the other man’s voice was studiously casual. “Still in Scotland, still a widow, still determined not to return south. Why do you ask?”
“Oh no reason, just being friendly and all that.”
Thom nodded and filed away Arthur’s interest for future reference. Eleanor, his younger sister, had made a love match at twenty to a Scottish peer, who sadly had passed away a year previously. No pleading had enticed her back to England. Her home, she stated firmly, was at Finbuck. As her husband’s designated person to watch over the estate—his deceased brother’s son—had not yet reached his majority, Eleanor had told Thom she was happy to manage the estate until Fergie was able to. Therefore he had no option but to leave the status quo as it was. Eleanor had her own fortune, and was well able to look after herself.
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