Esme guffawed. “Eyes bigger than your stomach?”
Thom tried to look injured and was certain he didn’t succeed. Esme issued another of her repertoire of snorts—she had several—and Sybille giggled.
“Not at all, I finished everything on my plate.”
“True enough.” Esme pushed the used crockery to one side. “So what’s all this about old Cedric Bankfoot’s son? Odious creature. I thrashed him once for teasing his twin. Cornelius I mean. Poor Alfie, he may not be all there up top, but nor is he the imbecile Cornelius would like him to be.”
“I didn’t know Bankfoot had a twin,” Thom remarked as Esme topped up their wine glasses. “I imagine his father was relieved Cornelius, however repulsive, was the elder.”
Esme dropped the bottle onto the table. Luckily it was empty, and Thom caught it as it toppled.
“The elder?” She shook her head. “Is that their story? Alfie is the oldest. Hmm, I can’t imagine Cedric being so deceitful. He’s not the smartest, but nor is he a slow top. And I seem to recall he is a stickler for propriety.”
“He never comes to town,” Thom said. “Plus, as far as I know Cornelius is deputed to make all the decisions for the estate. Which is why, I and I suspect most of the ton, think he is the eldest son. Does his twin ever go abroad? Visits and such like to friends or London? To my knowledge I didn’t even know about him.”
“Evidently it’s not talked about. Alfie is the elder by twenty minutes. I should know. Their mother was my second cousin Georgiana. Poor thing died of milk fever five days later. So, I think it’s time to tell me the all. What sort of trouble are you in, Thom?”
“I…”
“He isn’t,” Sybille said fiercely. “I am.”
“You? With Bankfoot. Oh my dear, don’t tell me he’s forced you? I thought…” Esme shook her head. “I don’t know what I thought, to be honest.”
“He’s not forced me to… well you know,” Sybille said and looked at Thom.
He took pity on her.
“He knows a story about Sybille’s family that could ruin them. I know a way to thwart him. I didn’t have a hope to catch him, even with it, if he proved to be slippery, without involving the Birches and a lot of complications. Now thanks to you I do. But I’d rather beat him without stooping to his level.”
“Then tell me what he’s done, and what you’re going to do.” Esme leaned forward, put her elbows on the table and cupped her chin in her hands. “And what I can do to help.”
Thom glanced at Sybille. Her face was white, but she seemed composed. He walked around the table, knelt down in front of her and chafed her icy hands. In the warm sunshine her pallor and chill worried him. “May I?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The fact he asked would have been enough to agree. The way he did it, with concern in his eyes, firmed her resolve.
“Of course.”
“A quick précis, Esme. Sybille will correct me when I go wrong. A lot of the earlier story is immaterial. You know, I assume, that Mijo escaped the Terror, arrived via a fishing vessel with Theo Birch at the helm. They fell in love, married and had six children.”
Esme nodded. “Mijo and I are much of an age. They however live in the capital or Devon. I prefer to stay here. However, even I heard all about Theo’s brother dying at sea. There was a bit of gossip about how and why, and dirty dealings, but it fizzled out. Thanks in the main to Theo’s attitude. Stoic, sad and with no hint of scandal. Then he married Mijo. It was a great romance, I remember. Made my life hell. I had no interest in marriage, and there they were happy as two lovebirds in a cage. My mother was convinced I just didn’t try hard enough, and kept telling me if a young French girl could do it, so could I. She forgot I was a good six inches taller, three stone heavier, and had none of the niceties needed to snare a man. My mouth was enough to put them off.” She shook her head in a parody of despair. “I have always been somewhat outspoken. Luckily my cousin Fenniston—Thom’s father—backed me, and I moved here. Twenty years ago and never regretted it. But just because I’m out here doesn’t mean I don’t know what’s going on. Or so I thought. Therefore, please continue.”
Thom dipped his head and Esme gave a bark of laughter.
“Cheeky whippersnapper. You’d better fill me in. Oh and before you wonder, I do know that the Birches are not plump in the pocket, although I am not privy to what extent. Many houses are short of the readies. You, dear Thom, are one of the lucky ones.”
“True. Well sufficient to say, a year or so ago, Mijo decided to have her pearls copied for the girls to use as an aid to deportment.”
“Pawned them, did she?” Esme asked, shrewdly. “Get them copied?”
“Copied yes; pawned no. I came upon her as she was about to do so, and persuaded her I had a better idea.”
“Bought ‘em off her?”
Thom nodded. “We got them copied by Sandeman. All was well, or so I thought. However it seems the string snapped and she took them back to be restrung. And was seen. The bloody woman…sorry, Sybille.”
“Oh don’t mind me, we’ve all had similar thoughts at various times,” Sybille said. “You think I’m stubborn, you should try to persuade Maman to do something.”
“I did,” Thom said ruefully, remembering it. “She insisted on doing it herself. Now it transpires, something happened and one of the paste pearls needs replacing. With hindsight, we now think Bankfoot must have seen her and persuaded Sandeman to go into details. Now a lot of the ladies of the ton will wear paste for non-important events, and swap to the real thing when they need to make a shine or a statement. The fakes of course are often used by their children, before their come out, to practice deportment and such. Am I right?” he asked Sybille.
“Unfortunately, yes. Grief, I hated it. I remember Tessa and a tiara, which she swore made her three inches shorter due to the weight on her head. That sadly was never copied.”
Thom laughed. “Too easily spotted—or too complicated, who knows? But pearls and necklaces are common, even if it’s never remarked on. Somehow Bankfoot realized that Mijo only ever wore the fakes. The next bit I’m hazy over, but it transpires he now has a hold over Sybille. And just asking Mijo to wear the real pearls won’t be enough to negate it. Oh and before you ask—”
Esme shut her mouth with a snap.
“Mijo refused to wear them while, as she said, she didn’t have the funds to make them hers.”
Sybille wriggled on his lap.
Not the time to get aroused. Down, boy.
“Now it’s time for me to take up the sorry tale,” Sybille said. “Bankfoot played me for an idiot.” She shrugged. “An innocent idiot, admitted, but oh how I was a pheasant for the plucking. He seemed so nice, so friendly, and not at all a threat. When I was introduced to him, I was flattered at his attention.”
“Who introduced you?” Esme asked, before Thom had a chance to voice the same question.
“Oh someone perfectly eligible. Louis Ferrand. Not my taste, I must admit, but he and Amalia seem to get on well.”
“Hmm, go on.”
Thom relaxed—if being as taut as a bowstring could be called that—back in the chair and let Sybille remain slightly upright as she sat on his knees. Esme would ferret out anything they needed to know. He did not, however, remove his clasped hands from around Sybille’s waist. Sybille flashed him a grateful look and he squeezed her slightly. “All right?” he asked softly.
She nodded. “Well, we were at a soiree at Lady Grey’s. There were card and dice tables set out, and when he asked me to play, I suppose I was flattered.”
“One minute, who chaperoned you?” Esme interrupted. “Why weren’t you warned?”
“That’s the point, it was all above board, accepted, and even Maman was playing loo for chicken points. Everything was, well fun at first. We played piquet and dice for counters and I relaxed. Then he said ‘let’s play for something else.’ I demurred.” She huffed. “Well demur as I could, I’m not good at being su
btle. I said over my dead body. His reply was well it could be over your maman’s disgraced one. That was when he told me Maman had been deliberately duping the ton, and unless I gave myself to him, either in wedlock or out, he would ruin us.”
“Bastard.”
“The cur.” Thom realized Esme was a lot more vehement than him. “As you say Esme, the bastard. It is a plain as a pikestaff, he doesn’t give a fig about anyone or anything other than himself.”
“So how have you coped?” Esme asked her. She poured more wine and slid two glasses toward them. “I think you’ll need this.”
Sybille swiveled around, picked them up, and handed one to Thom.
“Thank you, yes, well, I’m now at a standstill.”
“How have you not coped then? I’m assuming you haven’t given in to him?”
“Of course not.” Sybille blushed.
“Ah.” Esme nodded. “That’s all right then. Go on.”
“I’ve coped, or not, by being a coward. I’ve avoided being with him, unless there are others around.”
Esme harrumphed. “Good gel. So what are you going to do to resolve this, Thom? Because I’d bet my new chicken coop Sybille won’t agree to set a date until you have done.”
Thom glanced from Sybille, who half smiled, to Esme and nodded.
“I have a plan. I think it will work. At least it stands a better chance now than before, thanks to your superior knowledge, Esme. Of course, as ever a lot will depend on others, but this is what I think we can do. May I have paper and pen to show you the possible chain of events? You’ll know, both of you, if it would seem feasible from a lady’s point of view. I’d be the first one to admit that most of the way a woman thinks is incomprehensible to men.” He sipped his wine and waited for the fireworks to begin.
“That, dear boy is because our brain is located above our waists,” Esme informed him asperity. “We are not cock-led.”
Sybille giggled. Thom did his best to keep a straight face, but it was oh so hard. Esme mid-rant was a sight to behold.
“As you say,” Thom said. “We are but poor specimen.”
Esme snorted. “Special-men or speci-men, never a true word was spoken.”
Sybille shivered and the tremors communicated to Thom.
“Cold?”
“Goose over my grave.”
“Well we can’t have you chilled.” Esme had picked up the exchange. “Let’s go in. Bebb will be itching to send someone to clear the table.” She stood up. “And I have brandy indoors, much more warming, you know. We can’t have you getting a chill. We’ll adjourn to the little parlor.”
“Brandy at this hour?” Sybille whispered as they stood up to follow Esme’s retreating form. “I’ll be so bosky I won’t be coherent.”
“Don’t worry, you won’t have to be. Just compos mentis and know what I’m doing to you.”
“Thom.” Sybille’s voice was scandalized. “You cannot do anything. We’re in your godmother’s house. Your unmarried godmother.”
Thom chuckled and kissed her. He forced himself not to deepen the kiss, to take her into his arms and go further, as he ached to do. Again, it was not the time or the place.
“It’s Esme you’re talking about. Esme, my unconventional godmother. Just who, or what do you think Bebb is?”
“Her chef?”
“Apart from that. Pastry making is not the only skill Bebb has.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
All of a sudden it made sense. Except for one thing. “Bebb?” she asked Thom as he took her hand.
“Yes.”
“Bebb is a chef?”
Thom laughed. “In a manner of speaking. She‘s a damned good cook anyway.”
“She?”
He flicked her nose. “She. Bettina, known as Bebb, is the daughter of an Earl. As you can gather, Bebb is not her full name. Her family cast her off when she and Esme escaped here years ago. I suppose they’ll tell anyone who needs to know she’s a companion or something. Well, of course she is, but not in the way they would mean it.” His inference was obvious.
“Ah.” A lover? Esme has a female lover? Oh my. “Then why have I not met her?”
Thom glanced at her, as he closed the French window behind them, and they walked across the dining room toward the lounge.
“You will. Once Esme realizes you accept the situation. She is over protective of her lady, but with good reason. Out here, they are merely seen as eccentrics and universally liked. But in the ton they would be annihilated. Which is why, I suspect they rarely leave the house and the village.”
Sybille nodded. “It must be hard for them. And of course I accept the situation. None of us can choose who we fall in love with. If it is a coup de foudre, you either accept it or be miserable.”
“And have you?” Thom asked her. “Accepted it?”
She smiled. “Oh yes, come hell or high water, you’re stuck with me. No breach of contract will be allowed.”
“I’ll put a ring of intent on your finger as soon as I can.”
His smile melted the chill that the thought of Bankfoot had given her. By the time they entered the small salon, which was not so small, but cozy and intimate, she felt happy, reassured and able to face any challenge ahead.
The small, elegant lady standing next to Esme was a surprise. The lady stared at Sybille, with a faint smile on her face.
“Sybille? You look well.”
Sybille jumped and her jaw dropped. She stopped in her tracks, and hardly noticed the hard body of Thom as he bumped into her. “Aunt Tina?”
Thom looked from each of the ladies in turn. “Aunt Tina?” He glared at Esme. “Bebbs is Sybille’s Aunt Tina? Did you know?”
“Not until you introduced Sybille. Then of course I had to warn Tina.”
“Not because I didn’t want to meet you again,” Tina said in her soft, West Country accent. “But I had no idea what’s been said about me. Hell, child you’ve not seen me for years, you might not have recognized me.”
“Of course I would, you were Maman’s best friend.” Sybille crossed the room and bussed Tina’s cheeks. “Why have I not seen you for oh, five or six years?”
“You’ve been at school. And well, we’ve not met up as often as we’d like. However letter writing is a marvelous thing, and I know all about you all. Or almost all. I believe there’s a problem with the Bankfoots?”
Sybille nodded, but inwardly she groaned. Did everyone know? That’s not fair, how can Thom, Esme and Tina be everyone? Grow up. After all I chose to take Esme into my confidence.
“With Cornelius.”
“Blackmail,” Esme said. Her voice was full of disgust. “Nasty little worm. Thom has a plan.”
“Which he hopes will work,” Thom said. “It’s no use just producing the pearls. We need to put the fear of God into him as well. Esme’s handed us that method.”
“Alfie.” Esme said. “Poor toad, he’d been dismissed from Cornelius’s mind. Cedric never goes up to town, and Cornelius seems to have put it about he’s the heir, not Alfie. I can put a spoke in his wheel. Alfie, the first-born, has a third nipple. I hazard a guess he doesn’t realize I know that. Well, why would he?”
“That’s not easy to hide or fabricate,” Thom said with satisfaction. “It helps. I need to go back to town. If I set off now on Endeavor I’ll easily be there before nightfall. May Sybille stay here?”
“Of course, if she wants to,” Esme said easily. “Though I think she’s more likely to acquiesce if you explain your reasons.”
Sybille bit her lip to hold back a grin.
“She’s a chip off the old block. 'Tell me why or I won’t,’ used to be Mijo’s favorite expression.”
“It still is, according to my papa. I think I’ll adopt it.”
“I don’t want Bankfoot to be able to get to you. When I confront him, I suspect he will be like a caged animal. I need you safe, and this is one way of ensuring it.”
“But my family?” Sybille asked him urgently.
<
br /> Thom looked toward Esme. “I’ll get the beds ready,” she said. “From tomorrow?”
“At the earliest,” Thom stood up and pulled Sybille to her feet. She teetered on tiptoes and the gleam in his eye showed her he’d moved her so suddenly on purpose.
“Come and say goodbye, while I saddle Endeavor.” He didn’t wait for her answer, just held onto her arm and tugged her. Short of letting go, and she didn’t think he’d let her, she had no option but to follow.
“Must you go now?” Sybille asked as they entered the cool, dimly lit stables. “I had hoped…” She chuckled. “How forward to say this. I had hoped to awaken in your arms again. Many times during the hours of darkness.”
Thom glanced at her. His eyes glittered in the half-light as he turned his head to look around them. In one corner a pile of hay stood with a shaft of sunlight flickering over it. Next to it, a saddle covered in a blanket over it, rested on what looked like a custom-made stand and behind them, a row of hooks for bridles.
“Go and lean over the saddle,” he said softly. “Quickly. We don’t have much time.”
Puzzled but aroused by the deep tone he used, Sybille hurried to comply. She rested her middle on the side of the saddle. With the blanket cushioning her from the saddle leather, nothing dug in too much. “Like this?” Hay sweetly scented the air, and she closed her eyes and sniffed with appreciation. It smelled of summer.
“Perfect.” There was a rustle and then her arse became chilly and her view disappeared.
“Whattftptt!” Not very eloquent, but the best she could manage under the circumstances.
Thom chuckled. “Indubitably. Just let your senses have full rein.” He caressed each globe of her rear, in long seductive circles. “And my pego also.”
He nudged her legs apart, and then the tip of his staff bumped against the entrance to her channel. Sybille gave into temptation and pushed back against him until he entered her fully. Then she held onto the saddle for dear life as he rode her in the manner he would a horse. Hard and fast.
Sybille matched him thrust for thrust. His breathing was choppy and harsh in the otherwise quiet room. Hers was breathy, irregular and difficult to remember to do. Their sighs and gasps got louder.
Sybille's Lord Page 13
