Chapter Five
Once they were settled in the park, Maria wandered away to seek the shade of a copse of trees. A footman poured wine into crystal glasses. Sibella took the proffered glass and sipped the cold liquid while she watched her sister pick wildflowers. A warm breeze fanned the damp curls beneath her bonnet, offering little relief. The weather was too hot to be pleasant.
Clearly determined that nothing was to ruin his picnic, Lord Coombe tempted her with all manner of treats from the well-filled basket, from scotch eggs to ham pie and fresh strawberries. The blazing sun had turned the landscape colorless and parched. Even the ducks left the water and tucked their heads beneath their wings. Hot air gathered beneath the umbrella the footman held over them. When the umbrella’s shadow wobbled, she glanced up. The poor man’s face was puce, and a river of sweat ran down his cheeks.
“Are you, all right?”
“Yes, my lady,” he said swallowing loudly.
“Give me the umbrella and sit in the shade.” She poured out a tumbler of water and held it up to him.
“Gather yourself together quickly, man,” Coombe said roughly. “I expect you to do your job.”
The footman who was very fair skinned, staggered into the shade and drank the water before hurrying back again.
Sibella could do little but return the umbrella to him, with a glance at Coombe who seemed to have lost interest.
Not always so agreeable then. Coombe’s enthusiasm had driven her to taste everything put before her, when she’d preferred to rest rather than eat. Slightly ill, she wondered when they might leave.
He leaned closer to dab with his napkin at the droplets threatening to spill from her glass. His lips parted as if to speak, then he closed his mouth and pulled away.
“Maria, come and drink wine with us,” Sibella called.
He glanced up at her. “May I ask you a question, Lady Sibella?”
She swallowed and nodded politely as dread curdled her stomach.
“Do you wish to marry?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And children? You must want a family.” He flicked a crumb from his cuff. She failed to find fault with the way he dressed, immaculate as always in a drab coat and brown breeches, his red hair carefully arranged.
She couldn’t imagine his hair ruffled as it must be when he first woke. She took a large gulp of wine and broke into a fit of coughing. Croaking out an affirmative, she turned to her sister who took her time returning.
“I confess, I do wonder why you’re unmarried,” he said. “I’m sure many have sought your hand.”
“How flattering, my lord,” she murmured.
Maria finally strolled toward them, ending their conversation. Relieved, Sibella smiled up at her as she took a glass of wine from the footman.
“Really, it is far too hot to be out, don’t you think?” Maria asked, showing a remarkable absence of guile, for which Sibella could have kissed her.
When Lord Coombe escorted them back to the carriage, his piqued expression left no doubt as to his dissatisfaction with how the day had gone. Sibella couldn’t really blame him. He had planned this picnic to please her. She sat beside Maria who was fanning herself furiously. As the carriage crossed the Thames on its way to London, Sibella recalled their conversation. It appeared he was intent on asking for her hand. And would do so soon. She was no longer an ingénue. Ballrooms were filled with fresh young faces each season. She yearned to hold a baby of her own in her arms and had to face the fact that her chances of that grew less with each passing year. Would marriage to a man she didn’t love, who could give her a child, make up for everything else?
*
Strathairn had not long returned to Grosvenor Square when Baron Fortescue was announced. Guy’s face was lightly tanned from spending time out of doors. He smiled as he shook Strathairn’s hand.
“Country life seems to agree with you,” Strathairn said, surprised to find himself a little envious.
“I plan to be more often in London next year when I take my seat in the House of Lords, now that matters at Rosecliff Hall are in better shape.” His dark brows snapped together. “You mentioned Forney in your letter. I thought he was feeding the fishes.”
He filled Guy in on what had happened the night Nesbit was killed and how an anonymous note had brought them to the dock.
“He and his cohorts had those gold cravat pins specially made,” Guy said. “There is definitely some connection although it may not be Forney himself.”
“Except that they were all rounded up and hung.”
Guy shrugged in his Gallic fashion. “Might there now be others who have taken up Forney’s cause?”
“Possibly, someone took a shot at me in York.”
“Tiens! If it is Forney, why return to England? It’s too dangerous for him here.”
“Parnham believes Forney and his cohorts consider the time ripe for revolution. It would serve them well to see upheaval in England. Revenge could drive them.”
“After all this time?”
“Revenge is a dish best served cold, is it not? To be on the safe side, you should take precautions.”
Guy clenched his jaw, the muscles jumping in his cheek. “I don’t care for myself, but I have a family now.”
“Where is baby John tonight?”
“At my house in Mayfair with his nurse.”
“Would you like me to assign a man to watch the house?”
Guy huffed out a sigh of relief. “Merci. It would ease my mind. I can’t always be there.”
“Are you returning to Rosecroft Hall soon?”
Guy’s nostrils flared. “No, my friend. I intend to join you in your search for Forney.”
“I welcome your company, but your wife may not wish you to become involved again.”
“Ah, yes, Hetty,” Guy said thoughtfully. “I shall have to be very creative, no?”
*
“Brandreth wishes to talk to you, Sibella.” Her mother eyed her cautiously. “You’ll find him in his study.”
A flicker of apprehension coursed through her. “What does Chaloner want, Mama?”
“Go and find out, child.”
Her mother knew, and she did, too, unfortunately. Sibella made her way to her brother’s study. Whatever he wished to tell her would be significant. Chaloner found less time for idle conversation of late.
When she entered, he glanced up from his satinwood desk loaded with papers. “Ah, there you are. You may go, Pettigrew.”
His secretary nodded to her as he left the room.
“Come and sit down, Sib. I hardly see you these days.” He bent his dark head over a document.
That was not her fault. She settled on the ornate satinwood chair and waited.
Minutes passed before he cast the paper down and leaned back to study her. “I’ve just received the best news.”
She widened her eyes. “You have?”
“Lord Coombe has requested permission to ask for your hand.”
“Oh.” She sucked in a deep breath, sure her heart missed several beats.
“You don’t look pleased.”
“I’m not ready, Chaloner.”
“Not ready? At six-and-twenty? At what age do you think you might be?” He rubbed a bloodshot eye and glowered at her. “Childbearing age one would hope.”
She scowled back at him. “You chose your bride, did you not?”
“Dash it all, Sib! You might have done, and indeed, I have waited for you to do so. You’ve given the congé to every suitor who pursued you.”
Sibella chewed her bottom lip and fought the urge to cry. She stiffened her spine and leaned forward. “I’m not going to marry a man I don’t know.”
“You’ll get to know him better once you’re engaged. Spend more time with him, even alone. Briefly, of course,” he amended hastily.
“I don’t want to spend time alone with him!” Sibella jumped to her feet to tread a path over the Turkey carpet to the window. A carriage rattled past in St James’s Square. “I can’t explain exactly why, but I feel little fondness for him and I certainly don’t love him.”
“Love? You’ll need to do better than that,” Chaloner said. “Lord Coombe is an excellent match for you. Your first season was years ago. This might be your last opportunity to marry well.”
She came back to the desk, clutching her hands in front of her. “There’s something about him. I feel a little apprehensive in his company.”
“He hasn’t been rude to you? Not too forward one would hope.”
Remembering John’s kiss in the garden, she huffed in a breath. “Certainly not.”
Chaloner seized a pen, testing the nib on the paper in front of him. “What then?”
“It’s…just a sense I have. I doubt he’s a kind man.”
“He’s unkind?” Chaloner shook his head. “What has he done to make you think this?”
“Nothing exactly. It’s just a feeling.”
“I can hardly explain that to Lord Coombe, can I? I don’t understand it myself. You’re being too dramatic.” He smoothed his hair back with a hand, a gesture that reminded her of Vaughn, but Chaloner’s hair had whitened at the temples. She suffered a sudden fondness coupled with pity for him. He carried the whole family on his shoulders as well as everything else a marquess of considerable fortune must do. No wonder he looked tired. “It’s not as though he’s never married,” Chaloner continued. “His wife died before she provided him with an heir.”
“I know that,” Sibella said. “But beyond a certain sympathy, I can’t make myself care.”
Chaloner tapped the end of his pen again with a heavy sigh. “Rather than turn the fellow down flat, how about I put him off for a month? In the meantime, spend time with him. I’m sure you’ll find that he’s not an ogre but quite a decent chap who will make a good husband. Is that reasonable?”
“You’re a dear, Chaloner.” With any luck, Coombe may seek another bride in the interim. Hot with relief, she rushed to give her elder brother a warm hug.
He looked surprised and pleased. “I’ll write to him today.”
Sibella walked to the door.
“But he may decide to look for a bride elsewhere,” Chaloner called after her. “Are you prepared to lose your chance to marry a man of your equal in fortune? Of reasonable age and in good health?”
“And with all his teeth?” She laughed at Chaloner’s grimace. “I will chance it, dear brother.”
Sibella left the room feeling a good deal lighter. Her mother’s maid waited for her around a corner of the passage. “Your mother would like to see you in her bedchamber, Lady Sibella.”
“Thank you, Plumley.” Sibella eased her tight shoulders. This really wasn’t her day. No doubt her mother would be impatient with her, but she would still defer to Chaloner.
Sibella’s relief dissolved two days later when Lord Coombe apparently undeterred by Chaloner’s letter, called to invite her to the opera. Aware of her promise to her brother, she accepted. Her music-obsessed sister Cordelia and her husband, Roland, were more than happy to accompany them. Settled comfortably in Lord Coombe’s box at the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden, Sibella enjoyed the first act of The Marriage of Figaro. It was amusing, and the audience revered Mozart as she did and were reasonably well behaved, most remaining in their seats.
The soprano was both beautiful and in excellent voice. Sibella almost forgot Coombe beside her. She watched through opera glasses as the swelling aria lifted her spirits. When it was over, a glance at his serious face reminded her of his sad lack of humor. She should, she supposed, admire his dogged determination. Perhaps it was just that he was not Strathairn. But then, no one was.
While at interval, Cordelia and Roland talked to friends, Lord Coombe brought her coffee. As she sipped the tepid brew, he leaned close. “I received your brother’s letter,” he said. “I understand you require more time before we might announce our engagement.”
The cup rattled in the saucer. “Oh. Yes, I’m relieved you understand, Lord Coombe.”
“I’ve come to the opinion that you’re a woman of finer feelings, Lady Sibella. And I plan to devise many pleasant outings on which you can grow in confidence as to my impeccable conduct and manners.”
“I have no doubt your manners are exemplary, Lord Coombe,” Sibella said. “I worry that our natures may not suit.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You dislike something about me?”
“No…it’s not that at all.”
“Then what?”
“I’m…not in love with you.”
He sighed with evident relief. “Many successful marriages are not love matches. Most, of our class, I would say.”
“I believe love is essential for a happy marriage.”
“You are a romantic,” he said. “I’m surprised but not deterred by that.”
Sibella almost sighed with frustration. “Surprised, my lord?”
“I would expect to find such feelings in a green girl, not a mature lady. Do not despair; such a notion does not deter me.”
“No, my lord?”
He patted her hand encased in its white glove. “I rise to a challenge.”
A challenge? “I’m not sure what you mean.”
His gaze shifted away from her. “I plan to win you, Lady Sibella. Make no mistake about it.”
Sibella sucked in an annoyed breath. She couldn’t understand this man at all. Greatly relieved, she greeted Cordelia and Roland when they entered the box.
At breakfast the next morning, Sibella told Maria about her conversation with Coombes.
Maria paused in the act of taking a bite of toast. “Coombe said exactly that?”
“Yes. Exactly.”
“Well that’s good isn’t it, dearest? It means he loves you passionately.”
She eyed Maria uneasily. “You think so? I can’t believe it. He seems so…forced.” If Coombe was passionate, he’d hidden it well until now. And he’d made no mention of being in love with her. In fact, she doubted he was. He was exceedingly polite. But she’d begun to suspect he was a bit of an actor. What lay behind it, shyness?
Maria shrugged. “What else could he mean?”
“Am I being unfair, Maria?”
Maria shook her head violently. “You are never unfair, dearest. Never.”
Sibella held a hand to her breast. “Then why do I feel this way?”
“Have you no inkling?” Maria sighed. “You simply must find a way to get Strathairn out of your system once and for all.”
Frustrated, Sibella prodded a kipper then laid down her fork. “A comment of Edward’s did make me think.”
“Oh? What did he say?”
Sibella had never turned from a fight in her life. Why be a wimp now when it mattered more than anything in her life? She pushed back her chair and rose, crossing the room with a determined tread. She needed to rethink her wardrobe. “I’ll tell you later.”
“You are so annoying,” Maria called as Sibella quitted the room.
That evening they were to attend the Regent’s soiree at Carleton House. Strathairn was sure to come, for the prince would expect it.
Sibella’s hands trembled as she put on her earrings, silently pleading for Strathairn to be there. He must, for this was her last chance.
There was only one way out of her present predicament. She must persuade him to marry her. Edward had planted the seed in her mind. Strathairn wanted her; she had sensed it as they stood together in the stables in York. She couldn’t be wrong about something like that. She would never expect him to give up his important work. Indeed, she may well be able to assist him in his duties.
With this in mind, she had chosen her most seductive gown, a scoop necked, sea-green silk satin, the tiny puffed sleeves embroidered with silver leaves. Ivory tulle flounces embroidered with the same silver lamé leaves decorated the hem. To complement her ensemble, exceptionally fine aquamarines hung on a chain around her neck and at her ears. She turned in the mirror, pleased with the result. She intended to play the flirt tonight to devastating effect. Picking up her gloves, shawl, and beaded reticule, she prayed Strathairn would be unable to resist her.
She walked downstairs while pulling on long white gloves, the silver shawl draped over her arms.
Maria waited on the black and white marble floor of the entry hall. “How beautiful you look in that.”
“I do hope so.”
“Mama is waiting in the salon.” Maria grinned. “You are up to something, sister dear. Might it have something to do with Strathairn?”
“What makes you think so?”
“You still have the blossom he picked for you, pressed into your Bible. He won’t be able to resist you tonight.” She grinned. “If it is Strathairn we talk about.”
“I am not nearly as clever with men as you, dearest,” she said evasively, while admiring her sister, a vision in Indian muslin, which featured a Grecian pattern, embroidered in gold thread and a low neckline. “I pity poor Harry. He can hardly wait for your wedding day.”
Maria smoothed her low bodice. “Mama was a bit cross with the dressmaker.” She gave a cheeky grin. “But she merely followed my instructions.”
After the carriage deposited them at Carlton House, Sibella, Maria, and her mother moved through an entrance hall of yellow marble Ionic columns. Light filtered down from above. A footman showed them into the drawing room, which was the epitome of elegance with French decor and furniture, and Rembrandt, Rubens, and Van Dyck’s oils gracing the walls. Sibella took a glass of champagne from a waiter as they maneuvered through the crush. Both the drawing and music rooms were already crammed with well-dressed guests, the women in colorful finery.
Lord Coombe came immediately to her side. “You look radiant, Lady Sibella,” he said. “A man would be proud to have you at his side.”
“Very prettily put, Lord Coombe,” her mother said. “Don’t you agree, Sibella?”
Sibella curtsied. “Indeed. Thank you, my lord.”
Lord Coombe’s brown eyes warmed. He did appear to approve of her in his stiff, formal manner. Might his cool reserve and strict sense of propriety mask an affectionate nature?
She excused herself and followed her mother through the throng.
When the ladies of a similar ilk claimed her mother, Sibella went in search of Strathairn. She found him deep in conversation with the Regent, the eccentric Sir John Lade, who managed the Prince’s racing stable and dressed like a groom himself, and the Irish diplomat, Viscount Montsimon, who was often at the Prince’s elbow on these occasions.
A warm glow flowed through her as Strathairn’s searching gaze alighted on her. He dipped his head with a brief smile. She met his gaze before her friends, Lady Somersmere and Miss Greville, came to draw her away.
Once the ladies moved on, Sibella searched again for Strathairn. The Regent had left. Strathairn stood with Viscount Montsimon and Baron Fortescue. She located the baron’s wife, Horatia, glamorous in bottle-green taffeta and threaded her way to join her.
“Lady Fortescue,” Sibella said. “How wonderful to find you in London. I hope this isn’t to be a brief visit.”
The tall willowy redhead laughed. “Only fancy, Lady Sibella, the baron has opened the townhouse for the rest of the season. And here I was fearing we would rusticate in the country until little John was ready for Eton.”
“How delightful. I shall see more of you.”
“Thank you, my dear.” Horatia took her arm, and they strolled about the room. She nodded in her husband’s direction where he talked to Strathairn. “I wish I didn’t suspect something going on with those two. My husband tends to keep me in the dark about some matters.”
“Men tend to believe women will break like fragile china under the slightest pressure,” Sibella said, gazing in Strathairn’s direction. He had not made a move to greet her.
“Until we show them just how strong we are,” Horatia said forcefully.
A fair young lady dressed in the first stare of fashion approached them. “Hetty!”
“Fanny! How splendid! Lady Sibella, this is Mrs. Bonneville, a dear friend of mine.” Horatia said.
Fanny bobbed. “Please call me Fanny, Lady Sibella.”
“Fanny’s husband, James, has just come into an inheritance from an aunt,” Horatia explained. “And they have bought a new house in Mayfair.”
“It shall have all modern conveniences,” Fanny said. “But it’s not quite finished yet. We hope to move in next month.” She giggled. “It will be such a relief not to have to live with Mother in Digswell any longer. One tires of being told what to do when one is grown up.”
Sibella silently agreed.
Horatia gestured toward a group of vacant seats. “Let’s sit in that alcove. We must arrange a time for you to come to tea and meet Master John.”
With a glance in Strathairn’s direction, Sibella moved with the two women toward the chairs. Her heart pounded hard and she feared she would lose her breath. For what she intended to do went against every notion of etiquette.