by Jo Goodman
Lily did not mistake this for a request. Had it been one, she would not have denied him. “The walking stick,” she said softly. “It’s what he—” She stopped because Sherry was nodding.
“I see it,” he said. He kissed her forehead and turned her in the direction of the scoundrels. They were waiting at the foot of the bed, darting anxious glances between Lily and Woodridge. “Wait for me in the schoolroom. I will come for you when it is finished here.”
“Yes.” Lily stopped worrying her bottom lip and released it. She skirted the edges of the undulating drapery as Woodridge flopped and twisted like a netted trout and let Dash take her in hand. The boys quickly escorted her out of the room. Midge set his candlestick on a side table before he closed the door.
Sherry’s slight smile was rather grim as he bent and picked up the walking stick. He examined it experimentally, twisting the crystal knob clockwise and watching the stiletto blade retract into the shaft of the cane. Turning the knob to the left made it appear again.
“A clever instrument,” he said, jamming his boot against the small of the baron’s back to keep him from making another roll in that direction. “I am talking about the walking stick. I did not suspect the blade, else I would have taken it from you as well.” Stepping aside, he gave Woodridge a light kick, encouraging him to keep rolling. When the baron didn’t move, Sherry taunted him. “You are shy, perhaps, Cleopatra? She presented herself to Caesar in such a fashion, I believe. Or is it the terrible ignominy of your position that gives you pause?” Sherry set the walking stick on the bed and dropped to his haunches beside Woodridge. Taking a handful of drapery in each fist, Sherry yanked hard, forcing the baron to roll out. While Woodridge lay facedown on the carpet, Sherry picked up the stick. With the blade retracted, he poked at his former mentor until he turned over.
“Ahh,” Sherry said, looking at the blood pulsing from Woodridge’s closed hand. There were stains as well on his trousers at the calf and just above his ankle. “I see she got some of her own back. That must rankle.” He tapped the blunt end of the stick lightly against the floor. “Is this what she used to make you reveal your hiding place?”
Woodridge said nothing.
Sherry pressed the tip against the wound in the baron’s calf. “Is it?”
“Yes!” When Sherry removed the stick, Woodridge repeated himself, more softly this time. “Yes.”
“Will you get to your feet?”
Nodding, Woodridge began to rise. His injury caused him some difficulty, and he held out his hand to Sherry for assistance. When Sherry took a step backward, the baron responded with a humorless smile. “You do not trust me, Sheridan? I told Lilith it was a flaw in your character that you were too trusting, but perhaps you have corrected it at last.” He finished straightening, holding his injured hand close to his chest. He glanced down at it then back at Sherry. “It’s a grievous wound.” He showed Sherry that he could not flex his fingers smoothly. “It may well be that I will not have the use of it again.”
“I don’t think that matters,” Sherry said quietly.
Woodridge’s slender mouth curved in a parody of a smile. “No, I don’t suppose that it does. How will you do it?”
“Quickly.”
“That’s good of—” He broke off because it was already done.
Sherry took a step to the rear, sharply removing the stiletto from the baron’s chest. He examined the stick once before he retracted the blade and tossed it aside, then he turned away, his expression like his eyes, dark and remote, and exited the room without a backward glance.
Epilogue
L’Abbaye de Sacré Coeur, Décembre 1815
Sherry came to his feet, inclining his head politely as the two women hurried past. They acknowledged him courteously, serene smiles fixed but curiosity in their surreptitious glances. He watched them bend their heads toward each other once they were out of his hearing and could easily imagine they were discussing him. It was more difficult to imagine what they might be saying, though he distinctly heard one of them titter. Until this moment it had never occurred to him that nuns might be given to tittering.
Lily made certain she had impressed upon him what a solemn place the abbey was. While she’d shared stories of her own sly misdeeds and efforts to bedevil the sisters, she was equally careful to paint a picture of women embracing long hours of contemplation and prayer. According to Lily, footsteps were what one heard in the hallowed corridors, not voices, and no one ever hurried. She had failed to mention there might be tittering.
Sherry returned to the hard bench. Positioned as it was outside the Reverend Mother’s study, Sherry could not quite shake the sense that he had been called up to explain some misdeed of his own. It harkened back to his days at Eton where the headmaster had carefully prepared lectures on a variety of offenses that students were wont to commit. Coming to stand before him had always seemed serious business, fraught with certain anxiety and embarrassment, but Sherry decided it paled in comparison to making the same stand before the abbess.
That was why he was relieved it was Lily inside with the Reverend Mother and he who was cooling his heels in the hallway. Grinning widely, unapologetic for encouraging her to go in alone, Sherry leaned back against the cool stone wall and stretched his legs in front of him. He warned Lily at the outset that he had too many sins to atone for to be strictly comfortable in the presence of so much piety, but he was all for accompanying her to the abbey.
It had been, in fact, his idea.
Their wedding trip, he had explained, would be to Paris, and Lily was so overwhelmed by his generosity that she failed at first to comprehend that pleasing her was not his only motive. She was not long in coming to the understanding that he was maneuvering her, and she did not thank him for it. They had words, many of them exchanged the morning after their wedding night, so that when they appeared at breakfast and barely spoke to each other the tension at the table was discomfiting. His godmother and the scoundrels tolerated it as long as they could, but then they began to twitch. Pinch elbowed Dash, Dash kicked Midge under the table, and Midge poked Lady Rivendale with his index finger. They volleyed glances, wiggled eyebrows, and whispered to each other in asides that were perfectly audible to the people they were talking about. He and Lily had surrendered to them, and it was then that Lily had agreed that whatever his motives, a trip to Paris was just the thing.
They were married in September as soon as the inquiry into Woodridge’s death was behind them. The wedding was a small affair, just as Lily had wanted, with only a few family members and close friends attending. Cybelline and Nicholas had been present, Cybelline still slender as a boy from the back but burgeoning alarmingly from every other angle. His godmother honored Lily’s promise to abandon her list and invited only those dearest to her. His own friends made the long journey from London and settled in Granville Hall for a fortnight, finding great delight in teaching the scoundrels a host of tricks they didn’t need to know and losing a considerable sum of money to his godmother at the card table.
Lily had not been ready to make the acquaintance of her own family, if indeed there was a connection as Lady Rivendale suspected. Following the wedding, she found one reason after another to put it off, and Sherry realized finally that his intrepid, seemingly fearless wife was actually quite afraid. In the end, she had no choice, not because he forced her to it but because her family did.
Lily received a letter from John Bingham in October, some three weeks following the wedding. The missive introduced himself and made cautious inquiries after her own family. Lily set it aside for more than a sennight before she decided she would answer. Sherry believed he demonstrated considerable restraint by not offering his opinion, even when it was requested. He was beginning to learn when Lily was truly desirous of hearing what he thought and when she merely wanted to hear him agree with her. Marriage, he was finding, was filled with hidden snares such as that one. Sometimes he was able to sidestep them; on occasion they snagged him so sharp
ly he went head over bucket.
Sherry never minded landing at Lily’s feet. She was too generous of heart to let him lie there long and too smart not to realize that he quite enjoyed the manner in which she made up to him.
Lily invited John Bingham and his wife to visit Granville Hall, thereby delaying—quite purposely, Sherry thought—their Paris trip a few additional weeks. The visit lasted a fortnight, and the Binghams proved to be the most excellent of people. Arriving with the family Bible, they showed Lily the lines that connected her mother to John and Caroline Bingham and confirmed that Caroline was indeed Sister Mary Joseph of L’Abbaye de Sacré Coeur. Never once during their visit did Lily ask directly if Caroline Bingham had given birth to her, and neither John nor his wife volunteered information to suggest that this was true. Sherry did not press Lily to make the inquiry, respecting her wishes not to discomfit their guests. If it was a secret, John Bingham had determined it was not his to reveal. If it was simply not true, Lily’s cousin might find offense in having the question put to him.
For himself, Sherry allowed he was curious, but whether or not Lily was a bastard was insignificant to him, except as it mattered to her. Lady Rivendale opined the same view, but her curiosity was so great Sherry was afraid she might wheedle the information from the Binghams regardless of Lily’s desire to let the thing rest.
It was with some relief that the Binghams finally departed, but by then Cybelline was close to delivering and everyone was in agreement that London was the place to be. The Paris trip was again delayed, and Sherry could not very well accuse Lily of bringing it about when nature was merely taking its course.
A slow course as it turned out. The infant showed no signs of being in any hurry to make the acquaintance of its parents or the world at large. It was a week past the expected arrival when a runner delivered the message to Sherry at his townhouse that his sister was now confined to her bed. His beautiful niece was born just as day was breaking. Lily attended Cybelline and afterward came downstairs to announce the birth. Later she would be moved to tell him that he and Nicholas looked far worse for the experience than Cybelline did.
Some five days later, with Cybelline insisting that she was in the best of health and relying on the good judgment and experience of the nurse—and the well meant but less reliable advice of Lady Rivendale—Sherry was prepared to finally embark on the Paris trip with his bride.
The scoundrels were perfectly happy to be left in the care of their Aunt Georgia. She had impressed upon them the necessity of addressing her as such or risk giving the gravest offense. They had become her devoted followers, and Lady Rivendale enjoyed it shamelessly. Sherry was certain they would be spoiled beyond bearing by the time he and Lily returned, but he had survived much the same treatment at his godmother’s generous hands and had not been irreparably damaged by the attention.
Sherry came to his feet and out of his reverie as the door to the Reverend Mother’s inner sanctum opened suddenly and Lily stepped into the quiet corridor. By nature, Sherry was not given to fanciful notions, but when he saw Lily it seemed to him that the very air around her shimmered. She looked not merely happy, but beatific, profoundly serene and yet moved by an excitement that simply could not be contained. He had thought she was surpassingly lovely on her wedding day, coming toward him down the center aisle of the village church attended by the three scapegraces, but what he saw in her now was something altogether different. She did not merely glow; she was radiant.
“Sherry?” Lily said his name uncertainly. She held out her hand to him. “Are you unwell?”
He blinked. “You have not decided to join the convent, have you?”
She frowned. “Pardon?”
“You do not mean to become one of them?” The inflection in his voice betrayed his uncertainty.
“One of the order, you mean?” Lily’s eyes widened a fraction. She looked away from Sherry and surveyed the length of the corridor to be confident it was empty, then she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly. His hands came around her waist and supported her as she stood on tiptoe. “You foolish man,” she whispered against his mouth. “I cannot imagine what put that maggot into your head, but if I have not already proved to you how unsuited I am to that life I will set about the thing directly.” She kissed him again, this time flicking her tongue across his upper lip.
Sherry jerked his head back and put her from him, holding her securely at a distance. “You are depending on me to show at least a modicum of good sense. That is not fair, Lily.”
“You have never disappointed.”
His dark eyes darted toward the room she had just exited. The door remained closed, and Lily’s smile was teasing him almost beyond bearing. “Bloody hell, but you tempt me.”
“Sherry! You forget where you are!”
At first he didn’t understand, then he realized she was referring to his language. It didn’t seem to matter that she had put him to a blush with that kiss. He was moved to offer the wry observation, “I am wondering why my slip of the tongue is worse than yours.”
Now it was Lily who was put to a blush. “You, my lord, are a perfect rogue.” She found his hand again and began pulling him toward the door. “Come. I promised Reverend Mother I would bring you directly, and frankly, Sherry, you have put me off my task.”
Flashing Lily a rather satisfied, superior smile, Sherry allowed himself to be led away. He noticed her slight hesitation when her fingers fell on the door handle. “Lily?”
She looked up at him. “She is the very best of women, my lord. I hope you will not think—”
Sherry reached around her and placed his hand over hers. He exerted enough pressure to turn the handle. “I expect I shall like the Reverend Mother enormously.”
The door swung open. The Reverend Mother stood on the other side of the threshold. “I believe Lily Rose is more desirous that you like her mother, Lord Sheridan.”
Sherry’s glance absorbed the Reverend Mother’s slightly anxious expression, the way her head tilted to one side, the small vertical crease between her brows, the set of her delicate features framed by the wimple, then his eyes flew to Lily’s and he saw the identical expression there. It was not the similarity of coloring but one of manner that put the connection between the two women firmly in Sherry’s mind.
Lily slipped her arm in Sherry’s and said softly, “My lord, I would very much like you to make the acquaintance of the recently appointed Reverend Mother of L’Abbaye de Sacré Coeur.”
The last niggling doubt was removed. Inclining his head, Sherry spoke the name that had been often on his mind of late. “Sister Mary Joseph.”
In their Paris apartments that night, Sherry dismissed his valet and went to find Lily in her dressing room. She was sitting at the vanity, her eyes closed, her head tilted slightly backward, as her maid ran a brush through her hair. Sherry caught the maid’s attention and gestured toward the door with his chin. He held out his hand for the brush, and they smoothly switched places. The maid departed the room with such stealth her skirts did not rustle. Still, Lily’s deeply satisfied sigh indicated she knew quite well who was pulling the brush now.
“What gave me away?” asked Sherry.
“Your touch is infinitely more gentle than Beecham’s.” Without opening her eyes, Lily reached behind her and laid her hand over Sherry’s, patting it lightly. “Pray, do not let that affect your work, my lord. I find your way of doing things has much to recommend it.”
“You will understand that I am gratified to hear it.”
His wry tone made her smile. She let her hand fall back in her lap and her smile gradually faded. “Beecham tells me that Le Rougeaud was executed this morning. I confess, I did not think it would happen. I thought the marshals would save him in the end.”
“Perhaps they did. There is already a rumor that it was not Ney who faced the firing squad.”
“Oh, that cannot be. I was told he gave the order to fire himself.”
“And th
at does not make you suspicious?”
She frowned, at once suspicious, but not of the courage shown by le brave des braves. “Sherry? What do you know about this?”
“Rien. Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“I am well out of that intrigue, Lily, and it is only happenstance that we are in Paris at the time of his execution. You know very well our trip was delayed.”
“I am not certain I believe in happenstance where you are concerned. You have an extraordinary talent for getting what you want.”
“You are kind to say so.”
Lily could not help smiling again. He was always provoking her to that end. She made a small murmur of pleasure as he lifted her hair and ran the brush through the underside. The bristles tickled the nape of her neck. She shivered delicately.
Sherry was not proof against the invitation of her parted lips. He bent and kissed her mouth. The brush dangled from his fingers, then clattered to the floor. Without breaking the kiss, he drew Lily to her feet. His fingers threaded in her hair while hers settled at the small of his back. They held each other in just such a fashion for a long time, their mouths moving with aching slowness as they enjoyed the thoroughness of the kiss.
In the end it was Lily who danced Sherry in the direction of their bed. When the back of his knees bumped the edge of the mattress, she pressed her fingertips against his chest with just enough force to topple him. She followed him down, covering him with her body. The room was far too chilled for her to enjoy that position for long. Lily was quite happy to be rolled under, happier still, when Sherry made a cocoon for them with the blankets and warmed her feet with his own.
