Chapter Two
Restless, Strathairn entered the library of his Berkley Square home. The house was too quiet now that his younger sister, Georgina, had married the Duke of Broadstairs and his widowed sister, Eleanor, had gone to live in Devon.
He struggled to come to terms with his behavior. That he should suddenly give in to desire and kissed Sibella when he had promised her brother he wouldn’t pursue her, was unforgiveable. While she’d put a brave face on it, she must wonder what the devil had got into him.
It must have been the shock of Nesbit’s death. Tomorrow, he must visit his partner’s wife. She had recently borne the poor man a son. He swiveled on his heel and moved closer to the coal fire seeking to warm his chilled body, but the cold was more visceral than corporeal.
He had never come to terms with the guilt he suffered after William Laverty’s death. William had been a good friend and one of his lieutenants on the Peninsular fighting under Wellesley. When Strathairn had sent him on a surveillance mission with a handful of soldiers, they had ridden straight into the hands of the enemy. He’d searched for them all night, finding them at dawn. Gripped with helpless fury, he had taken William’s broken body down from where they’d hung him from a tree branch.
Such memories still had the power to inflict deep pain. He’d lost comrades and witnessed death and devastation caused by Napoleon’s army during the war, but details of that one scene continually resonated in his dreams. Finding the scattered bodies in a flowering orchard, the sky an arc of vivid blue, the stench of blood blending with the sweet perfume of blossoms, raw flesh, and the buzz of flies in the still hot air, rictus distorting William’s handsome face. The letter of condolence he had to send to William’s mother.
Strathairn poked the fire as he attempted somewhat unsuccessfully to banish the image of Sibella, gazing at him, lips parted in the moonlight. He continued to roam the bookshelves. His father had assembled an impressive library during his lifetime. A man given more to deliberation rather than action. His father had been against him joining up and had then begged him to resign his commission. Nothing he did impressed his father. Strathairn had long ago given up trying to be what the erudite, elegant statesman wished of him. He preferred an active approach to problems and felt trapped when indoors for any length of time, which only grew worse after the war. The prospect of spending hours in the House of Lords discussing the Corn Laws left him cold. He wished his father’s disappointment didn’t still have the ability to gnaw at him.
He drew a volume of John Donne’s poetry down from the shelf and leafed through, pausing to read a few lines:
“License my roving hands, and let them go–Before, behind, between, above, below…”
A man familiar with love and desire was Donne. He smiled, recalling Sibella’s conversation about marriage. He usually had a good grip on his emotions. Perhaps he’d grown too comfortable in her company and acted without thought. She’d asked too many questions he wasn’t able to answer. He disliked prevarication, but he had no choice. He’d given in to his need to be drawn into her perfumed warmth, which only made him want more. Sterling woman that she was, she’d handled his outrageous conduct with aplomb, placing them back on the level of friendship.
Friendship? Once, the notion would have been enough, but now…now he wasn’t so sure. Disconcerted by his irrational thoughts, he replaced Donne on the shelf and went to the drinks table. He sat in the fireside chair with a glass of whiskey and took a deep sip aware that he must rein in these intense emotions. They made him feel too much. Think too much. They were dangerous, especially now, with a difficult mission ahead of him. One he might not emerge from unscathed.
The candles guttered low in their sconces. Enough of this. He downed the last of the golden liquid and leapt to his feet. He hated a quiet house. Despite the late hour, he would visit the George Inn in Southwark. There was always good company to be found there. Molly’s arms would obliterate the sight of Nesbit’s dead eyes.
He rang for his butler.
“Get my coat and hat, Rhodes, I’m going out. No need to wait up.”
On the street, he tamped down an unaccountable surge of disloyalty. Damn, he was becoming irrational!
As the hackney rolled over the cobbled roads, he wrestled his thoughts into some semblance of order. He must alert his friend, Guy, Baron Fortescue, to the possibility of Forney’s return. Guy had helped to foil Forney’s plans to assassinate a member of the royal family two years before. Now his friend appeared to be relishing the role of country squire. Guy wrote of his modern methods of farming and the house that he’d built for his bachelor laborers. Paid them fifteen shillings a week, which was twenty times the going market rate. It proved to be a success, resulting in increased profits. Fortescue ventured to London only under sufferance when his wife, Horatia, dragged him there. Less often now since their baby son, John, named in his honor, was born. They were besotted parents.
It sounded like an idyllic existence, but it wasn’t for him. His intelligence work had filled the hungry ache and sense of loss he had suffered when he returned from the war and gave him a purpose. His years away had changed him. How could they not have, watching his friends and colleagues die, and unsure himself if he would still be alive by nightfall? He’d spent more hours in the saddle than out riding through the rugged Iberian Peninsula with intelligence needed at headquarters. Bad dreams continued to plague him even now, forcing him to relive the worst of those times.
He wasn’t sure why, but the surge of excitement and a sense of living on the edge banished the anguish he suffered, which nothing else had thus far been able to do.
When the carriage pulled up, he shrugged away his thoughts like shedding a heavy cloak and pushed his way through the noisy regulars in the busy inn.
*
As they often did at her mother’s instigation, Sibella and her siblings repaired to their countryseat, Brandreth Park, a few miles from Tunbridge Wells. Sibella welcomed the change. The country air and quiet always helped to clear her mind. When dark clouds heralded an impending downpour, she hurried back to the house.
Had Strathairn searched for her in Rotten Row and suffered disappointment not to find her? He obviously wasn’t going to fall at her feet and propose. After the kiss, things might become awkward between them, but she didn’t wish it never to have happened. Trouble was, she now had dreams of such a disconcerting nature she would blush to reveal them to anyone, even her married sisters.
In the entry hall their butler, Belton, took possession of her bonnet, apron, gardening gloves, and sketchpad. “Her ladyship entertains a visitor, Lady Sibella.”
She expected a neighbor as no one had stated their intention of calling. With the trug of blush pink roses over her arm, she entered the salon, wiping her moist brow with a naked forearm.
A strange gentleman sat talking to her mother.
“Sibella,” her mother called from her chair where their cat, Whiskey, played with the fringe of the cashmere shawl on her lap. “Come and meet Lord Coombe. Only fancy, Lord Coombe was up at Oxford with your brothers. I can’t think why we haven’t met before.”
The well-dressed gentleman had auburn hair swept into a careful Brutus. He rose and bowed. “What a perfect picture you make, Lady Sibella. The roses match those in your cheeks.”
She curtsied, clutching the basket close to her chest. “You must excuse me, my lord, I’m a trifle soiled from gardening.” Over his shoulder, her mother cast her a dark look.
Lord Coombe hesitated, caught midway across the room. “I have sought your mother’s forgiveness for this inopportune visit. I should have left my card, but I came in the hope that I might see your brother.”
“Which brother do you refer to, my lord?” She smiled. “I have several.” She settled the wooden trug on a mahogany side table and began to remove each rose, careful of the thorns.
“Edward. He suggested I call in when passing on my way to London from Arrowtree Park.” Disappointment plowed his brow. “He was to advise me on the purchase of a gelding at Tattersall’s auction rooms this afternoon.”
Sibella wasn’t fooled. Edward an authority on horses? If it was a legal matter she might have believed it. He had arranged this, and by the smug expression on her mother’s face, she was part of the conspiracy. At the very least, Edward might have had the good grace to be here.
Her mother rang for tea, and she was caught. She could hardly make an excuse and disappear without appearing rude.
“Give those flowers to a maid, Sibella.”
“I like to arrange them myself, Mama.”
“Here you are, Belton,” her mother said. “We wish for tea. Tell a servant to put the roses in water.”
As Belton left the room, Sibella admitted defeat and sank onto a chair. “Is Arrowtree Manor Elizabethan, my lord? The village of Chiddingston has many fine examples.”
“How discerning of you, Lady Sibella. Arrowtree Manor is a wonderful example of the period. To preserve it and its grounds requires a great deal of my attention.”
“I’m sure your wife is a great help to you, my lord.” Her mother stroked the loudly purring cat.
Lord Coombe’s eyes rested on Sibella. “I have no wife to help me unfortunately, but I plan to rectify that soon.”
Her mother studied him keenly. “Would we know of your fiancée?”
“I have yet to choose a wife, Lady Brandreth.”
Sibella sighed inwardly. She could visualize her mother’s glee, although she was far too polite to show it. Well-bred and obviously plump in the pocket, Lord Coombe was ripe for the plucking. Sibella intended to give Edward a stern dressing down as soon as she found him alone.
At this point, her nemesis walked in. With a questioning raise of a black eyebrow, Edward took note of the fiery light in her eyes. He adroitly ignored her and moved smoothly on to greet his guest. “I’m sorry to be late, Coombe. Got held up at Brackett’s Corner. A careless drayman overturned his cart and spilled his load all over the road, broken crates, and bottles everywhere. Took them an age to clear it.”
As the maids unloaded the tea service and seedcake onto the table, Maria appeared. “I see I’m just in time for tea.” She offered their guest her pretty smile.
Sibella considered Maria to be the loveliest of her sisters. At twenty, her skin was flawless and her figure exceptional. Most of the children inherited her mother’s black hair and green eyes, except her two older sisters who were fair like their father had been.
Under her mother’s direction, a servant placed urns of roses on occasional tables around the room. “How decorative, Sib,” Maria said. “Their perfume is heavenly.”
Sibella nodded and sat back to admire the result. The salon was a family favorite because the chimney didn’t smoke. They gathered here on brocade sofas when her eldest brother, Chaloner, was at home. The walls were papered in moss green, the Axminster carpet pink and cream, the curtains at the arched windows of rose silk damask. In gilt frames, paintings of their descendants hung around the walls. Above the carved marble fireplace, where Dresden figurines and a silver-gilt ormolu clock resided, hung a painting of her mother as a beautiful young woman in oyster silk, her hair piled high and dressed in ostrich feathers. Being part of this unruly and at times annoying brood, gave Sibella a strong sense of who she was, but also, what was expected of her.
Sibella narrowed her eyes at Edward. Unruffled, he winked at her.
Maria crumbled a cake onto her plate while she peppered their guest with questions. “Do you know the Duke and Duchess of Lamplugh in Chiddingston?”
“The duke is my neighbor, Lady Maria.”
“Well! How extraordinary! They are my fiancé, Lord Harrington’s parents,” she said as if Coombe was responsible for arranging it.
Lord Coombe explained how a corner of his property ran with the Duke’s, although he seldom saw them. “The Duke and Duchess are abroad. I believe in Italy?”
As Maria continued asking questions, he answered her politely. He was not unattractive although not particularly tall and of narrow build. One’s appearance accounted for little in marriage, Sibella supposed. She cast a resentful glance at Edward. How annoying that he and Vaughn were under no pressure to marry. If not the heir, sons could wed whenever they chose and to the lady of their choice, provided she was seen as acceptable.
If her foolish head wasn’t filled with a broad-shouldered blond gentleman, she might consider a potential husband among those beaus who had yet to desert her, despite her advancing years. She firmed her lips, she simply must banish Strathairn from her thoughts.
Drawn out of contemplation, she discovered several social engagements had been arranged, all of which Lord Coombe accepted.
Before departing to walk to the stables with Edward, Lord Coombe kissed her hand, his deep brown eyes meeting hers.
The footman closed the door on them.
“Wasn’t Lord Coombe an interesting man?” her mother said to no one in particular, as Sibella’s sisters, Aida, Cordelia, and the children came into the room. “Your expertise in managing a large household would be of advantage to him.” Mama nodded wisely at her. “It must be difficult for him to run such an estate on his own. A man needs a wife. To accompany him to social events, greet his guests, and see to their comfort when he holds shooting parties and the like.”
“I would loathe it. The boom of guns and the birds falling from the sky.” Sibella wrinkled her nose. She’d always hated guns and killing animals.
Sibella glanced at her mother warily. Mama showed too keen an interest in Lord Coombe for her liking. There was little hope of calling upon her sisters for help as she had in the past. Maria thought of little but her coming marriage to Harry, and both her elder siblings were preoccupied. Aida, a year older than Sibella, expected her first child and busily feathered her nest. Cordelia, at one and thirty, had two young offspring. Married to a cello playing viscount, she was obsessed with her harp.
Small feet danced across the carpet. A boy of four and a girl of three, advanced on Sibella, pushing her back in her chair.
She gathered them up in each arm.
“Oh, do be careful of your Aunt Sibella, do!” Cordelia said, with that vague expression she always had when her mind dwelt on her music.
“Bring more hot water, Pearson,” her mother directed the footman. “How are you, Aida? You look peaky.”
Aida put a hand on her round stomach. “The midwife says I’m very well, Mother.”
“It’s their nurse’s day off, Sib,” Cordelia said. “I don’t suppose you’d like to take the children for a walk or something? I need a few hours of perfect peace this afternoon and I can’t practice with them under foot.”
“You know I love to spend time with them.” Sibella kissed Anne’s cheek and smoothed back Randal’s bright golden hair. “Do you want to play draughts?”
Randal nodded and grinned up at her. Strathairn might father such a child, she thought, as he slipped off her knee. A strange ache filled her chest. Damn the man.
“Who is this Lord Coombe?” Aida asked.
“A friend of Edward’s,” her mother said. “He displayed a decided interest in Sibella.”
Sibella turned her back on her mother and grimaced at her two sisters.
Aida laughed.
Cordelia snorted. “You’ve certainly gained experience running this house, Sib. The housekeeper defers to you in most matters. And Lavinia is perfectly happy for you to do so.”
“I enjoy it, and Lavinia has all her time taken up with the children.”
“She allows them to run her ragged, and poor Chaloner, too,” Cordelia said waspishly.
“I’m sure Lavinia is most grateful to you, Sib,” Aida said.
“If you girls are conspiring to help your sister remain a spinster for the rest of her life, I beg you to stop and think how sad that would be,” Mama said. “Randal, don’t pull the cat’s tail; there’s a good boy.”
“Come children.” Sibella held out her hand to Randal. He stood at his grandmother’s knee where her cat gazed at him warily. Little Catherine was on her knees following the flowery border around the carpet. “Shall we search for bird nests?”
After running around the gardens with the children until they flagged, Sibella returned them to their mother and sought Maria, finding her in her bedchamber.
“I subjected Lord Coombe to the usual close inspection,” Maria said, winding a piece of pine-green velvet ribbon around her finger, “as I do all of your beaus.”
“He’s hardly a beau. But what did you make of him?”
“I don’t know,” Maria said thoughtfully. “He’s polite and well-mannered of course, but he gives very little of himself away.”
“Dark brown eyes are inscrutable, aren’t they?”
“You didn’t warm to him then.”
Sibella shrugged. “I neither disliked him nor suffered a strong attraction.”
“Well, we know why that is, do we not?”
The name Strathairn hovered unsaid between them.
As Maria rummaged in her jewelry box, Sibella was tempted to tell her about the kiss. They shared everything, and it seemed disloyal not to, but for some reason she wanted to hold the heady, sensory details of John’s kiss in the moonlight close for a while, not wishing the experience pulled apart in the cold light of day.
When Edward returned to the house, Sibella waylaid him in the front hall. “I’ll thank you not to help mother find me a husband,” she said.
For once, Edward didn’t laugh. He grabbed her hand and pulled her down the corridor and into the library.
She spun around as he shut the door behind her. “What is it?”
“You need to forget Strathairn.”
“I…”
He held up a finger. “There’s a very good reason for it.”
“I know. He doesn’t wish to marry. At least me, anyway,” she said ruefully.
“A spy cannot marry. That is, a spy with any integrity who doesn’t wish to place those he loves in danger.”
“A spy?” Sibella’s chest tightened. “Are you sure you’re not embellishing, Edward?” It did make sense now that she thought of it.
“I had no intention of telling you this, but I sensed your relationship might have taken another step. I trust you’ll be discreet. And for heaven’s sake, don’t tell Maria! She’s the worst at keeping secrets.” Edward folded his arms and leaned against the door. “He works for the military.”
So that was why such mystery surrounds him! “But what if a woman was prepared to marry him anyway and face the risks with him?”
“And subject yourself to a life of fear and heartbreak? You don’t know what you’re saying. Forget him, Sib, please.” He shook a finger at her. “Strathairn appears on the surface of things to be an earl with a passion for breeding horses. But he also inhabits another dark, dangerous world, which is beyond your comprehension. He resists drawing you into that world and exposing you to possible danger. If you set out to seduce him, his resolve may well crumble. I’ve seen how he looks at you. Leave Strathairn alone. There are other more suitable men in the world.”
He leaned forward and brushed a kiss onto her cheek. “Do you understand?”
She nodded mutely as she fought to grasp the truth, the certainty that she and Strathairn would never marry.
Edward opened the door to find a footman standing in the corridor trying not to look intrigued.
*
With a heavy heart, Strathairn left Mrs. Nesbit’s house, having delivered the grim news that she was now a widow. He promised the distraught woman financial aid would be forthcoming, and he would make sure it was.
When he reached Whitehall, a secretary showed him into Lord Parnham’s office, where his lordship sat behind his large desk piled high with files.
Strathairn removed the eagle pin from his waistcoat pocket and tossed it down on the desk.
Lord Parnham picked it up. He poked at the gold cravat pin in his palm. “You think this could belong to Count Forney? Is it possible the intelligence we received about his death is wrong?”
“Possibly. Or this was one of his cohorts.”
Lord Parnham’s eyebrows rose. “We hung them all.” He dropped the pin as if it might bite him. “What is your gut feeling?”
“This was hardly the act of a rational man, but was Forney ever that? He faces the hangman’s noose for his involvement in the assassination conspiracy. The target of which may have been Princess Charlotte. Some other purpose would have brought him here sadly since the princess died in childbirth.”
Thinking of Nesbit lying dead tightened his jaw. “I’ll continue to dig around. Something might turn up.”
“Don’t bother. There’s not enough to go on,” Lord Parnham said. “We’ll move on to other matters.”
Strathairn stared at him, dismayed. “I’d at least like to try to find out who wrote the note that brought us to the dock. And who shot Nesbitt?”
“It might be an enemy of yours. Best you don’t, Strathairn. I can assign someone else—” Parnham paused at a knock at the door.
Strathairn fumed as Parnham’s secretary entered the room and handed the spymaster a letter.
“The Home Office.” Parnham scanned it quickly. “Seems that Sidmouth’s spies have followed a Frenchman to York after he was engaged in stirring up trouble against the government in Manchester. They’ve apparently lost sight of him. It’s drawing a long bow, but we best check it out.” He leaned back in his chair, his fingers forming a steeple. “It’s likely York got too hot for him with the men on his tail. Nevertheless, go up there and see what you can find out about him. You might pick up his trail. Leave as soon as you can get away.”
“And if Forney should surface while I’m gone?”
“Rest assured you’ll be contacted.”
Strathairn had to make himself clear. He leaned forward, his knuckles on the desk. “I want to deal personally with whoever killed Nesbit.”
Parnham nodded, sympathy in his eyes. “You’ll get that chance.”
“I’ll leave in a few days. I’ll ride in Hyde Park tomorrow afternoon if you wish to contact me.”
His spymaster uttered a displeased grunt. “Cannot such a commitment to friends be deferred? Surely a ride in the park doesn’t compare with your estate, which I’m sure you’ll take the opportunity to visit.”
“It’s business.” He must set things right with Sibella.
A flicker of amusement lightened Parnham’s brow. “I see.”
“I wouldn’t read too much into it.” Strathairn glowered at the impudent man.
Parnham laughed. “Women lie behind most of the irrational things we men do.” His brows snapped into a worried frown. “But watch your back up north. And send word as soon as you can.”
The following afternoon, Strathairn rode his handsome black stallion, Hercules, to the park, wishing he could explain to Sibella how Nesbit’s death had affected him. That he hadn’t been himself.
The late afternoon sun warmed his back as he approached the park where the Beau monde were out in force, driving their carriages along the South Carriage Drive and riding their horses in Rotten Row.
Two women in a brougham laughed and flirted with him from beneath their lacy parasols as they waited to enter the park in the queue of traffic. Both pretty women, he admired their lavender and yellow carriage gowns and their bonnets trimmed with flowers. He pulled his horse up alongside and doffed his hat. “Good afternoon, Lady Bakewell, Mrs. Andrews. You both are the personification of summer.”
“Thank you, Lord Strathairn, we were discussing how well you look,” said Lady Bakewell, the elder of the two. “I must say, you have the finest seat on a horse I’ve seen for many a long year.”
Mrs. Andrews put her gloved hand to her mouth, unsuccessfully hiding her grin, as Strathairn bowed in the saddle and rode on.
A gallop was frowned on in the Row. Some riders cantered, others ambled along at a trot while in conversation with their companions. Strathairn greeted several acquaintances as he searched for Sibella, but he failed to find her among the crowd. She always rode on Wednesdays. Where was she? He suffered an annoying, disappointed jolt.
He rode the length of the Row and was considering returning home when Sibella’s younger brother Vaughn, appeared atop a bay. Strathairn was on friendly terms with all the Brandreth men. He rode over to greet him.
“The family’s in the country.” Vaughn whipped off his hat and swiped at his coal-black hair. “I’m off to Tunbridge Wells tomorrow. It’s Maria’s birthday. Mother has yet to move to the dower house and will gather us all at Brandreth Park to celebrate every little thing, don’t you know.”
Strathairn laughed. “Please give your mother and Lady Maria my best wishes.”
“I will.” He scowled. “I’d invite you if I could. We’d escape the women and hunt or play billiards. Tedious business, family parties!”
“Thank you for the thought, but I’m heading north in a few days.”
Vaughn sighed. “Off to Linden Hall, eh? Fine property, that.”
“You must visit again as soon as we can arrange it. I’m aware of your interest in my horses.”
He eyed Strathairn’s horse. “I admire the Arabian Turk breed. You promised me one to equal Hercules.”
Strathairn patted the horse’s neck. “I’ve yet to find one of Hercules’ equal. I do have a couple of promising foals bred from the Byerly Turk. Dark brown, but they have the same large eyes, arched neck, and high carriage of the tail.”
“Sounds promising.” Vaughn grinned. “Don’t forget me.” He gathered up the reins. “I enjoyed bagging grouse at Linden Hall last year, but you must come down to Brandreth Park this October. It’s going to be a prime shoot for ducks this year. I’d best be off. Edward wrote me he has a chap picked out for Sibella. All of us are to persuade her to take the leap into matrimony. Sib’s too special to remain an old maid.”
Lord Vaughn rode off.
Strathairn hunched over his horse’s neck. He could only agree with Vaughn, but somehow it didn’t make him feel any better. He’d thought himself resigned to Sibella marrying some fellow. To watch it happen, however, was another thing entirely.