Chapter Three
When the family returned to Brandreth Court, their townhouse in St James’s Square, Sibella and Maria took the opportunity to view the Parthenon sculptures at the British museum before embarking on a dizzying round of social events.
They were returning home in a hackney cab when Maria grabbed her arm. “Look, there’s Lord Strathairn.”
“Strathairn?” Sibella’s heart raced as the tall, fair-haired man crossed the road just as their cab drew up behind a town coach.
Maria opened the window. “Lord Strathairn!”
“Maria!” Sibella hissed as her cheeks began to burn. He turned his head and changed direction, coming to their carriage where they remained stopped in traffic.
With a nod, Strathairn tipped his hat. “Ladies. Have you been shopping in Regent Street?”
“Really, my lord, do you think shopping is all we women do?” Maria asked in a teasing voice.
His smiling gaze sought Sibella’s. “Not at all. But I have two sisters who have made me fully aware of the importance of shopping.”
Maria laughed. “We have been to the museum to view the Elgin Marbles.”
“Ah. Then I apologize. What say you, Lady Sibella? Did you enjoy the museum?”
Strangely divorced from the conversation, Sibella’s mind still dwelled on their last encounter. Startled, she whipped her gaze away when she discovered herself staring at his mouth, recalling the salty-sweet taste of his kiss. “It was most edifying. Such antiquities are awe-inspiring.”
“Indeed. I confess I have yet to see them.”
“Then you are as negligent as we are, my lord,” Maria said. “Elgin brought them from Greece some time ago.”
He laughed. “I have not seen you riding in Hyde Park of late, Lady Sibella.”
“My mare developed shin splints and must rest.”
“Your brother Vaughn tells me the family celebrated Maria’s birthday at Brandreth Park.”
“Yes, we’ve returned because Mama has persuaded the renowned pianist, Maria Szymanowska to perform at our musicale later this week.” Sibella placed a hand to her cheek and felt the warmth through her York tan glove. She hoped he wasn’t able to guess how his presence affected her.
The traffic cleared ahead, and their carriage jerked forward. “I trust we’ll see you again soon, my lord?” Maria cast a quick glance at her. “Although we leave for York next week. Mama intends to visit our brother Bartholomew who is the vicar there.”
“I’m about to travel north myself,” Strathairn said.
“We plan to attend the York assembly on Saturday. I do hope you’ll come. It’s a remarkably dull affair.” Maria stared at Sibella. “Don’t you agree, Sib?”
“Yes, it certainly can be,” Sibella said.
“I look forward to seeing you there,” Strathairn called as the carriage moved forward. At a shout from a drayman, he dodged a wagon and ran to the pavement.
Maria turned to her. “Well!”
Sibella raised her eyebrows, attempting a casual pose. “Well, what?”
“You are in a brown study. I’m sure Strathairn was enthralled by your scintillating repartee.”
“Oh, do stop, Maria.”
“What on earth is the matter with you? You two generally talk for ages. Had you nothing to say to him?”
“He kissed me.”
Maria’s eyes changed from owlish to accusatory. “Why didn’t you tell me? And when was this?”
“I’m sorry, dearest. It was of no consequence. At Lady Gladwin’s ball. You remained at home that night with a sore throat, remember?”
Maria stared at her. “Of no consequence? Are you mad? Where?”
“On the lips.”
Marie huffed out an annoyed sigh. “Where at Lady Gladwin’s, you goose. Surely not in the ballroom.”
“In the garden. We went for a stroll.” She eyed her sister. “Everyone was out that evening, it was so pleasantly warm.”
Maria sniggered. “Well indeed! I’ve long suspected his feelings for you ran deeper than he would admit to.”
Sibella shook her head, heat rushing to every part of her body. “That’s just it. He made light of it afterward. It was just an impulse which meant nothing to him.”
“Oh. The wretch!”
She gave a choked, desperate laugh. “He doesn’t want to marry me, Maria.”
“Many men think they do not. They must be persuaded.”
“As you persuaded Harry?”
Maria stroked her throat with a dreamy smile. “No.”
“Exactly. I shan’t spend my time longing for a man who doesn’t want me.”
Maria sighed. “Oh, Sib. I pray you will find true love as I did with Harry. I do believe you will in time.”
Sibella gazed out the window barely aware of the vehicles and pedestrians in the busy street, fighting against her feelings, her throat tight, tears threatening. Annoyed, she said firmly, “A woman can fall in love more than once, I imagine.”
“I don’t believe I could.”
“Mama has her eye on Lord Coombe,” Sibella said.
“Mama has her eye on any titled, unmarried male under the age of forty-five,” Maria said.
Sibella nodded. “Coombe appears respectable enough.”
Maria rubbed her brow. “Perhaps you might fall in love with him? When you get to know him.”
“Perhaps.” If only she could forget Strathairn’s kiss. As the prospect of seeing him again in York lightened her heart, she sat back, frowned, and crossed her arms. She would not yearn after him anymore.
*
While dressing for a recital her mother was holding, the door opened, and her parent walked in.
“You may leave, Sarah,” Mama said to Sibella’s maid.
The girl bobbed and left the room.
Sibella turned from studying her reflection in the Cheval mirror. She fiddled with a sleeve. “Is there something you wish me to do for you, Mama?” She knew as she asked it there would only be one thing her mother wanted. St James’s Square ran as well as the Swiss Long case clock in the entry hall.
“You’re wearing the muslin?”
“Don’t you approve?”
“Why not the white crepe with the embroidery and gold fringe?”
“It’s a little too decorative for this evening, don’t you think?”
“A lady should always wear what suits her best.” She sat down and clasped her hands in her lap. “But that is not what I wish to discuss with you, Sibella.”
Sibella took the gown from the clothes press and placed it on the bed. She eyed her mother. “Yes?”
“Is it your wish to remain a spinster and comfort me in my dotage?”
She laughed. “Oh, Mama. How dramatic you are. Of course not.”
“Good. Tonight, I wish you to give Lord Coombe your full attention.”
“But…”
Her mother rose and motioned with her hand to silence her. “Please make yourself agreeable to him.” She stepped forward to rest a hand on Sibella’s shoulder. “I gave the man you have a penchant for ample opportunity to declare himself, did I not? I even went against Chaloner’s wishes because I want to see you happy.”
Sibella flushed. “Strathairn and I are merely friends.”
“Fiddlesticks! I have eyes in my head! He chose not to propose marriage to you. That’s the end of it. You might find Lord Coombe quite acceptable if you give him a chance.”
A heavy sigh escaped Sibella’s lips. Her mind seemed to agree with her mother’s good sense, but her heart refused to bend. “Very well. I’ll try.”
“Good.” She touched Sibella’s cheek with a soft glove. “You are more than ready to set up your own household.”
*
The drawing room and dining room doors had been thrown open to enlarge the space for the evening’s entertainment. A visiting Polish composer and pianist, Maria Szymanowska, was to perform several piano concert etudes and nocturnes. What her mother did to entice the woman to Brandreth House was a mystery, for her performances to date were before royalty. But nothing her mother did surprised Sibella, which made her decidedly nervous.
After fortifying themselves with champagne and an array of tasty foods, the guests took their places. Sibella sat in the back row near the door to the conservatory. Lord Coombe, immaculate in his dark evening clothes and spotless linen, chose the seat beside her. With her mother’s words ringing in her ears, she greeted him with a polite smile.
“I have been looking forward to this,” Coombe said. “She performs in the stile brillant, I believe. Everyone raves about her.”
Sibella applied her fan, the air suddenly close and stuffy. “You’re very fond of music, my lord?”
“Certainly, surely everyone is?”
She thought of the interminable evenings spent at home performing with her sisters. “Some more than others, perhaps.” She studied his unremarkable profile, annoyed that she failed to find fault with it. If his chin receded, her mother would be concerned about his progeny. Men with weak chins lacked character, she often said. “You might enjoy attending my sister Cordelia’s musical evenings. She plays the harp and her husband, Viscount Barthe, the cello.”
“Indeed, I would. Do you play an instrument, Lady Sibella?”
“The pianoforte, rather badly, I’m afraid.” She offered a regretful smile. “My mother says there’s no excuse for it after years of excellent tutelage, but I prefer to ride and potter about in the garden.”
“I see.”
Did he look disappointed? She had no time to dwell on it, for Madam Szymanowska had taken her seat at the piano and a hush came over the room.
Even Coombe beside her failed to distract her from the virtuoso performance. When Madam finished the last piece and the enthusiastic clapping died away to be replaced with the buzz of conversation, she rose with the rest of the guests.
Lord Coombe held out his arm. “Would you join me in a promenade of the terrace? The rain seems to have held off.”
“How pleasant.” She took his arm. Where were her sisters when she needed them? Maria was in close conversation with Harry and Cordelia, and her husband stood among the guests clustered around Madam Szymanowska in rapt attention. No help in that direction. Sibella saw no way out of it.
They followed other couples outside. After being shut up in close quarters with a crowd of overly perfumed people, the night air, although hardly equal to the country, was at least reviving. Clouds hung low, hiding the moon. The braziers along the wall were a halo of light enticing moths to a fiery death.
Sibella slipped her hand from his arm and rested it on the balustrade.
“You seem a steady, thoughtful person, Lady Sibella. I admire that.”
He made her sound dull. “I suppose I am,” she said, with an inexplicable stab of disappointment.
“One can rely upon you never to lose your head and do something silly, or not quite the thing.”
“I doubt that I would.” It was clearly her downfall to be made this way. Had John kissed her to cheer her up, or horror of horrors, because he felt sorry for her?
She turned toward Lord Coombe, whose eyes were not far above hers. In the dark, he might have been anyone. He was a perfectly presentable man. If he kissed her, would it be out of pity? Or might she stir desire in him? She suffered a sudden need to find out. “Shall we stroll through the Square, my lord?”
He cleared his throat. “I believe it’s about to rain.”
“Yes, it does.” She had to admit he was right. She placed a hand to her throat. “Let’s not risk a dousing. Shall we go inside?”
She found his brown eyes unfathomable as he tucked her arm into his. “A wise decision, Lady Sibella.”
Sibella found herself disappointed more by his response than her uncharacteristic impulse. Lord Coombe would not seek to steal a kiss in the moonlight as Strathairn had done. Coombe would wait until all the i’s were dotted and the t’s were crossed on the marriage settlement before taking such a liberty. He appeared to be a highly moral and principled person. Most women would be happy with such a man.
Why was she not most women?
*
With the sharp blast of a horn and a blaze of scarlet and black, a mail coach passed Strathairn’s carriage at full speed, the passengers on top hanging on, their faces grim. A long night lay ahead for the poor devils. The drizzling rain obscured the road, and the lowering skies turned the day almost to night, but not dark enough for the coach lamps to be effective. Dangerous conditions for traveling. Strathairn would be glad to reach the coaching inn where he planned to stay the night.
The road had become a quagmire. The carriage hit deep ruts and rocked violently on its springs. Strathairn planted his Hessian boots on the floor to brace himself.
His thoughts returned to the gold cravat pin. The Corsican count was a Bonapartist who had never accepted defeat at Waterloo. Forney had gathered a group of conspirators together with the plan to wreak havoc and destabilize England in the hope of freeing Napoleon from his island prison. Such a plan never had a chance of success.
Strathairn rubbed his neck. Might Forney still be alive and have unfinished business in England? His pulse raced at the possibility of crossing swords with him again. Remembering Mrs. Nesbit’s sad eyes geared him up, and he tasted revenge, sour on his tongue. He carried a knife in a sheath in his boot and a pair of Manton’s pistols buckled into a leather bandolier on his chest, which fairly begged to deal with the count.
Strathairn rasped his hand over his chin and yawned. Might he have lost his objectivity? Had the work become too important? Once the excitement got into a man’s blood, he was lost. Some agents became careless, took too many chances, and ended up dead, like Nesbit.
But all that might change soon. With Bonaparte gone, the war department had lost its relevance. There was now a hue and cry to disband military intelligence. Bow Street dealt with crime and government agents with international matters. They rarely worked together with the military.
These changes could have him out of the game whether he wished it or not. But not yet. Was it foolish to want to leave his mark? To have his work acknowledged? Then what would he do? Retire to his estate and his horses, he supposed. It seemed a lonely, aimless prospect. He indulged in the vision of Sibella strolling with friends in the long gallery at Linden Hall, her laughter filling the empty rooms with life. He stretched his legs and contemplated his muddy boots envisaging Hobson’s vociferous disapproval.
Strathairn expected he would marry when this job no longer appealed. But Sibella would be long married by then. There was little point in dwelling on it. He gazed out of the window and smiled as the carriage overtook a slow cart on a hill where a faithful dog perched beside its master in the rain.
The coachman slowed the horses at the tollbooth while the groom paid the gatekeeper, and they were away again. The rain beat against the window, running down in rivulets. The Great North Road was one of the better roads on which to travel, but it, too, was potholed and too dangerous to travel by night.
Aiming to reach Biggleswade before nightfall, they made good time. The carriage reached the Crown Inn just as dusk set in. Strathairn climbed down and stretched his legs as an ostler hurried out to greet them. The proprietor who kept a room for Strathairn on a regular basis, greeted him in the warm taproom where smoke, tallow, and hops mingled with the rich aromas from the kitchen.
“Still employ the same cook, Job?” Strathairn asked.
“But of course, my lord.” Job chuckled. “Now, why would I sack me own wife?”
Strathairn grinned. “Most unwise when Mary is such a fine cook.” He could almost taste her admirable beef pie with its feather-light crust he’d enjoyed when last there, washed down with a tankard of ale.