Chapter Four
The night before the family departed for York, Sibella gazed around Lord and Lady Felstead’s dull soiree whilst fanning herself. Strathairn wasn’t there. Nor had he appeared in Rotten Row when she hired a hack and rode that afternoon.
Georgina, Duchess of Broadstairs, approached on her husband’s arm. Strathairn’s pretty dark-haired younger sister was unlike him in appearance.
She dipped a brief curtsey. “Is your son well, your Grace?”
The lady’s dark eyes danced. “Bonny, thank you, Lady Sibella. He is fair and has blue eyes like his Uncle John.”
“Lord Strathairn does not attend this evening?” Sibella tried hard to sound indifferent and not let her disappointment show.
“No, he visits his Yorkshire estate.”
“Come, my dear, we must take our place for the cotillion.” Broadstairs bowed and drew his wife away.
So, Strathairn had gone north without suffering the need to speak to her. She’d hoped an apology for the kiss might be forthcoming. He had not appeared at all apologetic at the time, so why expect more from him since? He probably kissed women all the time, at every given opportunity. And she’d certainly given him an opportunity, gazing at him like a fool in the moonlight. She would not do so again.
Sibella’s feelings for Lord Coombe warmed as he escorted her onto the floor for the dance. Unlike Strathairn, Coombe had attended every social engagement her mother had dragged her to. And here he was now dancing attendance on her.
They took their places as part of the square and the musicians began to play. Coombe bowed. Why did he always look so solemn? Though she tried in earnest to enjoy herself, she remained awkward in his company.
“Do you like to dance, my lord?” she asked, when they came together.
“I like to perform it well. I trust that I do?”
“Indeed you do.” She eyed him demurely. “You’ve never stepped on my toes once.”
He rewarded her with a faint smile, but the lack of flirtatiousness in his nature bothered her. A reserved man it seemed. Might the real Coombe emerge when they became more familiar with each other?
When the dance ended, Coombe politely left her with her sister.
Maria sipped a glass of lemonade. “I am parched!” She gestured with her glass. “Look! Sir Horace Leister is now courting Anne Talbot. Poor Anne. Remember when Sir Horace was a suitor of yours?”
“How could I forget?” Some of her suitors had recently retired. Sibella could only feel grateful.
“Every time Sir Horace revealed a wish for a private audience with you, Aida, Cordelia and I found ways to distract him.” Maria giggled. “It was funny at the time. Fortunately, he was easily distracted. Luckily, Mama didn’t like him either.”
“No, thank heavens.”
“An awful prospect.” Maria whispered behind her fan. “Black dye applied to his hair doesn’t make Leister appear younger.” She gave a peal of laughter. “I do believe I heard him creak and suspect he wears a corset.”
Sibella spread her fan to hide a grin.
Maria slid her a sidelong glance. “I don’t see Strathairn here this evening.”
Sibella fluttered her fan before her face. “His sister tells me he has gone to Yorkshire.”
“So I gathered.” Maria’s green eyes probed hers. “A good thing, for it gives you time to deal with your feelings for Lord Coombe. He certainly appears to be an ardent suitor, does he not?”
“It would seem so.” How she wished Maria wouldn’t carry on so, but her sister was uneasy about her.
“Mama was extolling his virtues to Chaloner.”
Sibella sucked in a breath. “Was she?”
“It surprises me, somewhat,” Maria mused. “Coombe seems quite staid, doesn’t he? Mama had a proclivity for rogues when she was young. I believe she almost married one.”
Sibella blinked. “I wasn’t aware of that.”
“Before she met Father, of course.”
Thankful for the change in subject, Sibella laughed. “Who told you that?”
“Edward. In an unusual burst of loquacity. I suspect he was in his cups.” Maria giggled. “And that’s not all I managed to get from him. Father wooed a famous actress in his youth.”
“Pish, where would Edward have learned such a thing?”
“Opera dancers and the like are sought by unmarried men, are they not? Not to marry, however. Oh there’s Harry.” Maria motioned to her fiancé with her fan.
“Don’t wave in that fashion, Maria. You look like a hawker at a fish market.”
“Harry has seen us.”
Harry approached with a special smile for his fiancée. “Why are the two prettiest ladies in the room sitting alone?”
“This one is waiting for you to dance with her, Harry.” Maria put down her glass and rose to tuck her hand in his arm.
Harry bowed in Sibella’s direction before he led Maria onto the dance floor to take their places for the quadrille.
Sibella gazed after them fondly. They were so much in love. It did her heart good to see them together.
Edward emerged from the throng to join her. “Not dancing, Sib?”
“I complained of fatigue. Coombe understood.”
Edward gave a derisive snort. “He looked dashed annoyed when I saw him.” Edward took the seat beside her and beckoned to a waiter. “And you weren’t too fatigued to ride in the park earlier.”
“I wasn’t then.”
“Looked like you were searching for someone.”
“You are a tease, Edward.”
“Not Strathairn, I hope? You have taken heed of my warning?”
“Stop fishing.”
Edward laughed. Then he sobered, dark brows beetling over a pair of green eyes like those she saw in the mirror. He crossed one leg over the other and considered one of his black evening pumps. “Might you have seen Vaughn of late?”
“Not since we came back to London, why?”
“Nothing important. I just wondered.”
“Edward, don’t think you can drop this in my lap and then discount it as nothing.” She tapped his arm with her fan. “What concerns you?”
“It’s just that I know what a mother hen you are with all of us.”
She gave an impatient shake of her head. “This concerns Vaughn?”
“I discovered him at Watier’s, Byron’s dandy club, a few nights ago. He was in his cups and betting heavily.”
She fanned herself. “Oh. I see.”
“That club is no place for Vaughn. Reckless all-night gambling goes on. He is too wild. Needs a strong hand, or he’s going to get into trouble.”
“Vaughn can only lose his allowance. And it wouldn’t be the first time.”
“He might be tempted to borrow from a money-lender.”
She bit her lip and nodded slowly. “Cannot Chaloner speak to him?”
“Our brother is busy with his estates and bills before the Lords. And Lavinia runs to him with every little thing. You know how he’s been lately. He only half listens when you speak to him.”
“I’m very fond of Chaloner’s wife. That’s not fair, Edward. Chaloner takes his position as head of the family very seriously. How can you judge what he’ll do about Vaughn unless you ask him?”
“All right. I will.” He grinned. “Lord Coombe approaches with a glass of Madeira for you. Don’t you hate that drink?”
She groaned inwardly and rewarded Lord Coombe’s attentiveness with a nod and a smile while addressing her brother sotto voce. “Will you visit Vaughn at his rooms at Albany tomorrow?”
“Yes. I plan to.”
Relieved, she gave her brother a speaking glance. “Please let me know how he fares.”
Edward inclined his dark head. “Are you enjoying the evening, Coombe?”
“I am.” Lord Coombe held out his offering as if it was a chalice encrusted with jewels. “An excellent affair.”
*
Drawn by fresh horses, Strathairn’s carriage departed Biggleswade after breakfast. He was an impatient traveler and tapped his fingers on the window ledge as the carriage swayed on its inferior springs along the rutted roads. He disliked being enclosed within the confines of a vehicle, and this hackney coach was a less than sterling one at that. His own having a broken wheel.
Some hours later, after stopping again to change horses, they crossed the Wetherby Bridge over the River Wharfe with hours of daylight remaining. Wetherby nestled in a bend in the river. It was good to be home.
Strathairn put down the window. A hint of the dank river carried on the breeze, blended with the aroma of baked goods and meat. Thursday was market day when farmers traded produce in the shops known as The Shambles.
A long-forgotten memory from the history of his discordant relationship with his father rose from somewhere, clear as if it was yesterday. On occasion, as a child, he’d slip away from his tutor and go to market with his father’s servants as they traded the estates vegetables for other goods. Once he’d been right next to a pickpocket in the crowd when a red-faced man turned to find his pocket watch missing. Strathairn had been accused, held by the ear and searched until his father’s bailiff appeared and explained he was the earl’s son. His father got wind of it and had taken the stick to him for evading his tutor. Although he wasn’t able to sit down for a week, the lesson hadn’t been learned, for it wasn’t long before he did something else to cause his father’s ire. There was a pattern there, he thought ruefully.
Carts unloading their wares in the high street held up the carriage. Villagers came to his carriage window to welcome him and advise him of the local news until the carriage moved on.
Once free of the town, the horses fell into a fast trot as if sensing they neared home. The gray stone houses left behind, Strathairn watched fields stretch away dotted with sheep and cows, in a lush green landscape. In the distance, the rolling countryside changed to purple moor grass, limestone, and the dark bulk of the Pennines.
The coachman drove through the gates of Linden Hall and entered the park along the road lined with chestnut trees. The carriage stopped on the sweep in front of the columned portico of the majestic house, the westerly sun warming the York stone.
In the great hall, Strathairn’s steward, Peters, hurried forward with a smile of welcome. “Good to see you, my lord.”
Strathairn shed his coat, hat, and gloves into a maid’s hands. “Unfortunately, it’s a short stay this time.”
A skeleton staff remained in the house all year around, for he came here whenever he could, regardless of the time of year. Once the London season ended, the Mayfair townhouse would have the knocker taken from the door, while the staff repaired to Yorkshire. Strathairn put up at Grillion’s Hotel if he had to return to the city.
“Shall you be here for dinner, my lord?”
“Yes. I’ll dine at six.”
Strathairn called for his bailiff and ascended to his bedchamber. As he walked the long corridor, he yanked at his cravat, eager to change into riding clothes after being confined for hours in the coach. His footsteps echoed across the parquetry floors. He’d expected the restlessness he suffered to leave him here in Yorkshire. His estate had never failed to lift his spirits before. How often had he come here, wounded mentally and physically, and been made whole?
In his riding clothes, Strathairn walked to the stable mews, keen to see his horses. His two hounds, Jasper and Rosy, greeted him with joyful barks, calling for him to admire their new litter. In the stables, he knelt to stroke their silky fur and offer his approval of the sleek, plump puppies. An inspection of his horses along the row of horse boxes followed. “That muscle problem has gone?” he inquired of his head groom, while patting the dark neck of one of his favorite mares.
“Yes, milord. Healed up well,” Joseph assured him.
Strathairn mounted Ulysses and rode out over his lands. He urged the horse into a canter and then a gallop, the breeze whipping his face. The cold rush of country air perfumed with summer grasses and damp soil helped to banish the grim reality of his friend’s death. Confident in his horse’s ability, he took fence after fence, exhilaration imbuing him with new energy. When they both tired, he walked the horse back to the stables. Leggy foals gamboled in the verdant paddocks. Was there anywhere on earth better than Yorkshire?
Back at the house, he spoke with his housekeeper, gamekeeper, and bailiff. Several hours passed before he’d finished attending to business. Alone again, he looked forward to a decent dinner, but the night stretched before him. He was sick of his own company. Even the idea of attending a dull assembly Saturday next, where he would be called upon to do his duty by the young debutants appealed, especially with the opportunity of dancing with Sibella.
Damn. It was going to be a very long night.
He stood and walked to the window. A distraction was what he needed. Perhaps he might seek out his neighbor, James Kent. He might be available for a game of chess.
The next day dawned gray beneath a lowering sky. Strathairn breakfasted late having enjoyed his neighbors company into the wee hours. It was past noon when he rode into York, the ancient city of Roman walls and dark narrow streets.
The magistrate informed him that a Frenchman caused some disruption in Manchester, stirring up the people who were already disturbed by the Corn Laws.
“He encouraged workers to drill with staves with the obvious intent to cause an uprising. The situation is combustible. Orator Hunt is agitating for change and the people are suffering because of the high cost of bread.”
After finishing with the York magistrate, Mr. Pugh, Strathairn spoke to one of his informers. “Do you think this Frenchman’s still in the town?”
“We don’t know, my lord.” The shabbily dressed man shifted his feet and lowered his head. “We followed ’im to York, but then we lost ’im.”
“Describe him.” Strathairn said.
The fellow, one of Sidmouth’s spies, undernourished and dull-eyed, shrugged. “Big chap.”
“Big? You mean tall?” Forney was tall, but slightly built.
The man nodded. “Huge, the shoulders on him!” He gestured with his hands to a width that Strathairn doubted even Gentleman Jackson could claim.
Whoever the fellow was, he was not Count Forney. Despite this knowledge, Strathairn joined the constable to make a reconnaissance of the poorer guesthouses, hotels, and alehouses. They found no trace of the Frenchman.
“He’s likely moved on, my lord,” the constable said. “Nothing much to keep him here.”
Strathairn dismissed the episode as unrelated to his present concerns and returned to Linden Hall.
At the end of a slow week spent visiting his tenant farmers, Strathairn drove back to York in the evening for the assembly.
Noise floated out from the Assembly Rooms along with the music. The rooms crammed with people. Those prepared to pay the yearly subscription, from farmers to the gentry and a sprinkling of the ton, gathered to dance in the ballroom, enjoy the card play, and the supper.
Strathairn entered the ballroom where dancers departed the dance floor, having just performed a Scottish reel. His gaze drifted over the ladies in search of Sibella. He found her with Maria and made his way over to the dowager marchioness. He bowed. “Lady Brandreth.”
“Lord Strathairn.” Since he’d reached adulthood, the dowager was the only person who could make him feel like an awkward lad in short trousers with one look. “I had not expected to see you at a York assembly.” Her ladyship’s green eyes drilled into him.
“Seeking an antidote to boredom, my lady.”
“It is evident why you have come. It is to see my daughter.” Her green eyes narrowed. “I like you Strathairn, always have. But it would be better for you to make yourself scarce where my daughter is concerned.”
“Then after tonight, I shall heed your advice.” He bowed.
The two sisters came to join them. “Lady Sibella, Lady Maria.”
A high color spread across Sibella’s cheeks. He cursed under his breath. Usually so composed, it was obvious his kiss had unsettled her. “May I claim the next waltz, Lady Sibella?”
“Certainly, my lord.”
When the master of ceremonies announced it, Strathairn took her in his arms and they joined the swirling dancers. “I would hate you to think I don’t value our friendship,” he said.
“Heavens, are you concerned about our last meeting? I pray you treat what happened between us as meaningless. As I do.” The look in Sibella’s eyes darkened before she turned away to nod at a friend.
His gaze wandered to the tendrils of ebony hair curling on her swan-like neck. He drew in a breath. “You sound so formal. I suspect you have not forgiven me.”
Her eyes sought his with a frank expression. “I have, now that I know the truth of it.”
He raised his eyebrows. “The truth?”
She tilted her head up at him. “You believe your work precludes you from marriage.”
So, Edward or Chaloner had told her. He should feel relieved. Instead, the hollow in his chest seemed to deepen. “You understand then.”
“I don’t understand, my lord. I merely know the reason behind your motives.”
“Dash it all, Sibella!” A woman dancing past frowned at him. “I wish we might go somewhere where I can explain it more fully.”
“We certainly cannot do that, my lord,” Sibella said coolly. “And I don’t see the necessity for it. You have stated your case. I have accepted it. Nothing has changed between us. Unless we are to become kissing friends?”
He huffed out a laugh. The prospect was most tempting, but of course, she didn’t mean it. He couldn’t tamp down the pleasure of holding her light in his arms. Her dainty pastel pink dress with its froth of lace around the sleeves and hem reminded him of a dessert made by Marie-Antoine Carême. “I wish to hear you say you forgive my rash action,” he said in a low voice, aware that his hand at her waist had tightened.
She raised her face to him. “I do.” She sobered. “Of course I do. I just wish…”
He gazed down on her lovely face, concern ruffling her brow. “Wish what?”
“That you would stop.”
He had nothing to say to that. He couldn’t. Not while this dangerous affair required his attention.
The dance ended, and couples walked from the floor. He offered her his arm and escorted her back to her chair. Their conversation had reached an end. It left him strangely dissatisfied. It was pointless to talk further on this, but still, he would have liked to remain in her company. To laugh and discuss other matters. He wanted to tell her about his foals and the new litter of puppies, to make her laugh and set her mind at rest. To return to the comfortable friendship they’d shared.
A half hour later, the master of ceremonies, a rotund officious fellow, ushered a very young woman with the startled eyes of a young deer toward him. “I’d like to introduce Miss Gudge, my lord. You’ll be delighted to dance with so pleasing a young lady, embarking on her first season. You shall lead the dance!”
“Charmed.” He bowed over the girl’s trembling hand and gave her a reassuring smile as the fiddlers took their places in the musician’s gallery. He glanced over at Sibella who was taking the floor on the arm of some callow youth. He would not be able to dance with her again nor seek her company without her mother scowling at him. Here in Yorkshire where his countryseat resided, his behavior came under more scrutiny than in London, and gossip bearing their names would spread like wildfire.
At eleven o’clock, the crowd dispersed. Lady Brandreth left in her son, Bartholomew’s carriage as Strathairn assisted Sibella and Maria into theirs.
After saying their goodbyes, he walked down the dark road toward his curricle. He dropped a glove onto the cobbles and bent to pick it up as a gunshot ricocheted around the street. It was followed by the sound of footsteps running away down the alley.
Strathairn ran back to where Sibella stood. Her carriage had stopped, and she’d climbed down onto the road.
“Go home! I’ll call on you tomorrow.”
She nodded, her face chalk-white in the moonlight. He ushered her inside where Maria was entreating her to take care.
Thankfully, the order was given, and the carriage rumbled away down the street.
Strathairn ran to his curricle where Joseph slumped on the ground. He huffed out a sigh of relief to find him unconscious, but alive.
He grabbed the gun he kept in the carriage and, aware it was useless, went after the shooter. He paused to listen at the mouth of the narrow alley. There was no sound bar the yowl of cats. Nothing moved. Pools of impenetrable shadows, where the moonlight and candlelight from the windows above failed to reach, could hide an assassin. Too dangerous to continue, but he was sure the gunman had got clean away.
Strathairn hefted his groom into his arms and placed him in the curricle. Then he clambered up onto the seat and untied the reins. Once York lay behind them, it remained an uneasy trip home with the young man sprawled semi-conscious beside him. Strathairn kept an eye on the road but no one followed. The fact that they knew where to find him made him growl in frustration. He didn’t like dealing with an invisible enemy. He preferred to confront them face to face.
The next morning, he was able to question Joseph, who had little more than a sore head. He was of little help. The scoundrel had crept up behind him as he held the horses and watched for Strathairn.
Strathairn rode Ulysses back to York to inform Mr. Pugh. He continued to the presbytery where Sibella stayed with her brother. He found the family in a flurry of activity, planning to return to London. Sibella, Maria, and Bartholomew’s wife, Emily, were in the parlor, the dowager busy upstairs with her maid.
“You must forgive me, Lord Strathairn, the ladies will have arrived with the flowers for the church,” Emily said.
“And they are all in love with Bart,” Maria said with a giggle after their sister-in-law left the room.
Strathairn grinned. Their brother Bartholomew’s appearance could be an inconvenience for a vicar.
“That was a pistol shot we heard last night, wasn’t it?” Maria said. “Did you discover who was behind it?”
Strathairn shook his head. “No, some young buck, no doubt, shooting at rats.”
Sibella brows were drawn in a puzzled frown. “I saw you ride past on Ulysses. I should like to see him. Shall we take a walk to the stables before we have our tea?”
Strathairn rose. “But of course.” He offered his arm. “Lady Maria?”
Maria waved her hand. “I shan’t come. I have no great fondness for horses.”
As they strolled along the drive, he glanced at Sibella’s serious profile. “You leave York tomorrow?”
“I believe my mother is half gypsy,” Sibella said. “I shall almost be glad when she settles into her dotage in the dower house.”
“That’s not likely to be soon. Your mother is still filled with youthful fire.” He thought of her fiery gaze on him the previous evening and had a feeling she was watching from an upstairs window.
Sibella turned to face him, her concerned gaze seeking his. “Are you going to tell me the truth about last night?”
He shrugged. “Someone shooting off a pistol. As I said.”
She searched his eyes. “You won’t tell me then.”
“I don’t know who it was, Sibella.”
She shook her head and fell silent.
They reached the stable where his big, chocolate-brown horse enjoyed a feed of oats. Sibella patted the stallion’s nose. “Oh, he is a true beauty.”
“Yes. Ulysses is going to be one of my greatest successes.” He leaned against the stall, enjoying looking at her in her green and white spotted dress. “So, we are friends again?”
She smiled. “We were ever friends. It shall always be so.”
Was he a fool to hope that their friendship would continue? With the knowledge of how precarious his life had become, he felt reckless in the warmth of the stables with the horses shuffling in their stalls. He disliked the distance that stood between them, and would far prefer to pull her down onto the straw and… “We’d best return to the house,” he said abruptly.
After casting him a careful glance, Sibella followed him out into the daylight.
As they sat taking tea, the dowager entered the room. She greeted Strathairn with a brisk nod.
“Have you written to Lord Coombe, Sibella?”
Sibella looked startled. “No, Mama.”
Lady Brandreth drew her shawl around her shoulders and aimed a pointed glance at Strathairn. “I’m sure he is keenly awaiting your return to London.”
Bartholomew, their tall, dark-haired brother, entered the room and the conversation turned to more light-hearted mundane matters. As soon as was polite, Strathairn took his leave.
*
Sibella stood at the window watching a hawker selling oranges below in St James’s Square.
“I can’t understand why Strathairn doesn’t propose, Sib,” Maria said as she brushed her hair before the mirror. “The way he looks at you shows he cares very deeply for you.”
“Perhaps he looks at many women that way.”
“I’ve never seen him do so. In fact,” Maria paused. “I’ve never seen him show any interest in another woman.”
Sibella drew in a breath as a quiver of sadness passed through her and turned away from the window. “Perhaps he prefers the ladies of the opera.”
“Or has a chère-amie,” Maria said as if she was a great authority on the subject. She shook her head. “No, I don’t believe that. Might his heart have been broken?”
“It’s possible, dearest.” Sibella almost wished it were true. That was something she could fight.
“I don’t believe that either. He loves you, Sib. I’m sure of it,” Maria said in a tragic tone.
Sibella hated to keep the truth from her sister. She took the brush from Maria’s hand and began to brush her long black hair. “He’s fond of me, I think. But I can’t force the man to marry me, now can I?”
When they settled in the drawing room later in the afternoon, the door opened and their youngest brother, Vaughn, walked in. “Vaughn!” Both his sisters jumped up to kiss him.
Maria hurried away to tell their mother after Vaughn collapsed on the sofa beside Sibella. She studied him as she put a stitch in her embroidery. At one-and-twenty, and the youngest male in the family, he was indulged, rootless, and restless. Right now, he looked haggard. “Are you going to tell me what worries you?” she asked. “Can’t you pay your rent at Albany?”
“Don’t you start, Sib. I’ve been harassed by Edward and Chaloner until I’m numb. Chaloner disapproves of my friends.”
“Might he have reason to disapprove of them?”
He shrugged. “They are young bucks, a bit wild at times.”
“You agree with Chaloner then? Won’t you heed his advice?”
He unwound his long limbs and climbed to his feet to stalk the carpet, swiping at his thatch of black hair. “Advice? That depends on how you look at it. Have I seen the error of my ways? I expect so.” He returned to stand before her. “Don’t worry so much, Sib.”
Sibella sighed. “Have you given any more thought to a commission in the army, Vaughn? The light cavalry, wasn’t it? Edward is in the law, Bart in the church. You must find something to do. The devil makes trouble for idle younger sons.”
“I sought Strathairn’s opinion about the army. They have reduced the size of the army because we are not at war. Who wants to toil for half rations?”
“Yes, but surely when Chaloner buys your colors—”
“An officer does better, I know.” He fell back in a sulk on the sofa. “I wouldn’t wager a groat on me ending up in the army. In fact, nothing appeals to me.”
“In a year or two you might marry, but until then, you should find something to occupy you which does not involve gaming.”
His green eyes widened. “Do you mean court an heiress? I never expected you to urge me to do that, Sib.”
“I didn’t. I’m merely making suggestions.” She tamped down her annoyance at his freedom to decide, a luxury not afforded to her.
“Well, they are most unhelpful.”
At the sound of the front door knocker, Sibella tucked away the handkerchief she embroidered in a silk bag with relief.
“Are you at home to Lord Coombe, Lady Sibella?”
She hesitated. She could find little reason to refuse him. “Yes, Belton.” She rose and smoothed her skirts as Henry Coombe walked into the room. “How nice of you to call, my lord.”
Coombe bowed first to her, then Vaughn. “We are fortunate to have a perfect summer day, Lady Sibella, and I hoped to persuade you to enjoy a carriage ride.”
If only an afternoon in his company appealed to her more. Despite her disinclination, she had promised Chaloner she would try. Besides, she’d accepted that Strathairn was lost to her and refused to pine.
“What an excellent suggestion.” She glanced back at her brother, who had returned to his seat, frowning in contemplation, his thumbs tucked into his waistcoat. “Why not join us, Vaughn?”
Vaughn leapt to his feet. “Ah, no thank you, I just remembered something important I must do. Your servant, Coombe.” He bowed and left the room.
“Well,” Sibella said. “Where shall we go?”
“I thought we might drive to Richmond for luncheon. I had a picnic basket prepared, which awaits us in the landau.”
“Only fancy, Maria was saying yesterday that she hadn’t been to Richmond in an age. I shall go and ask her.”
Lord Coombe inclined his head, his face thoughtful. Was he disappointed because they were not alone? Or didn’t it make the slightest difference? Sibella went in search of Maria. Whether she liked it or not, Maria was coming to Richmond.