Chapter Eight
Barely more than a week later, Strathairn was recalled to Lord Parnham’s office. Parnham had relented to a degree, agreeing to a brief reconnaissance mission to beat the bushes as he put it, hoping to flush out information. If nothing came from it by the end of the week, the matter was to be shelved.
Strathairn left, clenching his jaw infused with new purpose, Montsimon at his side. They walked together along Whitehall.
The Irishman’s gray eyes were sympathetic as he smoothed his dark brown hair and settled his beaver hat on his head. “Is it possible they intended to murder Nesbit all along?”
“Nesbit?” Strathairn frowned. “I doubt he had any enemies.”
“Then you, perhaps?”
Strathairn shrugged. “I’ve made a few along the way.” They approached a waiting carriage.
“Mine, I believe.” Montsimon motioned to the waiting carriage. “May I offer you a lift?”
“Thank you.”
The carriage jerked and rattled through Whitehall and turned toward Mayfair. “Has the regent sought your opinion on his intention to seek a divorce?”
“He has ignored my advice.” Montsimon shrugged. “Since Caroline’s manservant Bartolomeo Pergami gave evidence at Vice Chancellor Leach’s Milan commission, the prince is determined to prove adultery. He knows that is his only chance to gain a legal divorce. He’s hardly white as a lily himself. Even if a bill is drawn up and can be passed, the people will never approve. The Princess of Wales is a disgrace, but she still has the bulk of the public on her side.”
“That won’t stop him, despite being sensitive about his excess weight and his unpopularity. He has detested his wife since the day he married her.”
“Quite so,” Montsimon said. “Prinny can hardly ignore what is said about him. There are boos and jeers wherever he goes. I heard a chant as he passed. Something about Georgie Porgie, and pudding.”
The carriage approached Hyde Park Corner.
Strathairn bid Montsimon good day and left the carriage beside Hyde Park. He set out for the walk home. The breeze curled around him cool on his face, stirring the dead leaves over the ground. He had a sudden glimpse into his future. More summers drawing to a close as the years passed. If he survived them, would he end up alone?
A landau drew up beside him. “May we offer you a lift, Lord Strathairn?”
Lady Brandreth with Sibella sitting beside her in an appealing high-crowned hat with crimson and white striped ribbons tied in a bow beneath her ear.
He was about to refuse when Sibella flushed and averted her eyes. “Thank you, Lady Brandreth.” He climbed in and sat opposite them with his back to the horses. “Good afternoon, ladies.”
“Lord Strathairn.” Lady Brandreth studied him through her lorgnette. “No doubt you’ve heard Sibella has become engaged to Lord Coombe?”
“I’ve offered my congratulations to Lord Coombe. He is a fortunate man.”
“He is indeed. Where shall we take you?”
“I am returning home, thank you.”
“Berkley Square, Belcham.”
“How is your family, Lady Brandreth?” Strathairn asked. “All are well, I trust?”
Sibella’s eyes met his, wide with apprehension and some sort of message. He raised his eyebrows. While Lady Brandreth launched into a description of Maria’s wedding plans, he attempted unsuccessfully to read Sibella’s expression.
“A ball is to be held at St James’s Square, in honor of Sibella and Lord Coombe’s engagement. You will receive an invitation in due course.” Lady Brandreth’s tone suggested it would be of little interest to him.
The carriage jerked to a stop in the street outside the square. He bent over Lady Brandreth’s hand, then kissed Sibella’s gloved fingers, raising his eyes to hers again in subtle query. She shook her head ever so slightly as if in warning.
“Will you ride in the park tomorrow, Lady Sibella?”
“Sibella will not ride in the park for some time,” Lady Brandreth said. “She must prepare for Maria’s wedding, she and Cordelia are to be bridesmaids, and then her engagement ball.”
“I look forward to your ball, Lady Brandreth.” He climbed down. “Always a prized event on the social calendar.”
Lady Brandreth gave him a searching look. “Drive on, Belcham,” she snapped.
Strathairn stood on the pavement as the carriage drove away. Was that alarm in Sibella’s eyes? What would have caused it? After the last time they spoke, he expected a certain coolness, but this? Might she be in trouble? If so, did she need his help? He could hardly scale the wall to her bedchamber to discover what it might be. Nothing for it, he would have to wait for the ball, which could be several weeks away. Frustrated, he thrust his cane over his shoulder and crossed to his front door.
*
Sibella walked up the path of the stone building. A pretty, fan-shaped window sat above the shiny black door, flanked by two Doric marble columns. She was pleased when an invitation came to take tea with Baroness Fortescue at her townhouse in South Audley Street. She liked Horatia, but her main reason in coming was the hope that she might find out where Vaughn was. The baron was a good friend of Strathairn’s, and she might manage to get word to him.
She’d been tempted to write to John, but her mother and Chaloner would learn of it. The butler kept them abreast of every piece of correspondence sent from or delivered to the house. And time was growing short. Her mother would be sick with worry if her youngest son, of whom she was most fond, failed to appear at the ball and no explanation was given.
Horatia, in a morning dress of lavender and white striped percale, rushed forward to welcome her in the marble-tiled entry hall. “Lady Sibella, how pretty you are in that primrose gown, so perfect with your flowery bonnet. I have long admired your eye for color and style. Surely you must draw and paint?” They climbed the stairs to the floor above.
“I prefer my garden.” Horatia’s energy made Sibella aware of how tired she was. She was seldom calm enough to rest of late.
“Gardening always seemed like hard work to me. I prefer to spend my time writing.”
“So difficult for a woman to be published,” Sibella said.
“One must write under a pseudonym. Mine is Charles Grey. I have an article published in the Examiner titled: What is poetry?”
“It sounds intriguing. I most certainly shall read it.”
“Thank you,” Horatia said, looking pleased. “The weather is blessedly cool, I’m pleased to say. Baby John was so restless during those hot summer nights.”
“Is your baby awake? I’d love to see him.”
Horatia’s brown eyes warmed. “Nurse has taken him to the park. They’ll be back shortly.”
Sibella followed Horatia along the passage. “Your home is quite charming.”
“We spend little time here. The baron prefers Rosecroft Hall, but I enjoy the season.”
“Is Lord Fortescue in London?”
“No, he’s away in the country, something to do with his estate. He wanted me to come with him, but I know he will leave me there.” She narrowed her eyes. “He is in cahoots with Lord Strathairn and won’t tell me about it. So I shall not leave him.”
Sibella buried the hope of meeting Strathairn as a footman admitted them to the drawing room. Apricot silk covered the walls and gold damask graced the long windows. She and Horatia sat together on a beautiful French scroll sofa covered in rich chintz facing the Adam’s fireplace.
“Lady Brookwood is to join us.” Horatia said. “Do you know her?”
“Yes.” Sibella liked Althea Brookwood, a widow who struggled gamely with the poor situation in which her husband had left her.
At the scratch on the door, the butler announced Lady Brookwood. A petite, pretty woman with fair curls entered the room. She curtsied. “Lady Fortescue, Lady Sibella. How pleasant to see you both.”
“We shall be firm friends I feel sure,” Horatia said. “You must call me Hetty.”
“I detest Lady Brookwood, please call me Althea.”
The maid brought in the tea things. They were unloaded onto a rosewood table at Hetty’s elbow.
Althea took the flowery porcelain cup and saucer Horatia offered her. “Have the banns been called for your wedding, Sibella?”
Sibella sighed inwardly. “Coombe and I have decided to wait until my sister Maria is married. Their wedding is to be held at St. Paul’s Cathedral. I seem to recall Coombe mentioning your husband, Althea. Were they good friends?”
“Yes. We saw him and Mary Jane quite often,” Althea said.
Hetty refilled Sibella’s cup with ink-stained fingers. Sibella took the cup and saucer from her with a smile. “I confess, I’m curious as to what Lady Coombe was like.”
“Poor Mary Jane.” Althea stirred her tea. “She loved her childhood home, Arrowtree Manor, and was meticulous in its preservation. But life was difficult for her. She was often ill. A chest complaint.”
Sibella selected a strawberry tartlet from the plate laden with delicious cakes. “It was an illness which claimed her?”
“No, actually it was a fall. They found her at the bottom of the staircase,” Althea said. “Perhaps she fainted. She was often quite breathless.” She declined the proffered cake plate. “None for me, thank you. I must watch my figure.”
Obviously never having to worry about her slender waistline, Hetty added a second cream puff to her plate. “Poor Lord Coombe must have been devastated.”
“He was, more so because he has no children. Mary Jane could not conceive, which put a strain on their relationship, she confessed to me.”
“That is sad. Every man wishes for a son,” Hetty said. “You will make a perfect mother hen, Sibella. Your sister, Maria told me how you cosset your nieces and nephews.”
“I can’t wait to have my own to fuss over,” Sibella said, wishing the prospect of bedding Coombe wasn’t so unappealing.
“Then you both seem of the same mind. A marriage made in heaven,” Hetty said with a smile.
“Not given to rashness or levity, Lord Coombe,” Althea said. “Very upright in his manner.”
Hetty cast a sympathetic sidelong glance at Sibella. “Is that the kind of man you wish for, Althea?”
“I don’t intend to remarry,” Althea said with a tiny shrug of her shoulders. “I am perfectly happy. I can do as I please and I enjoy my freedom.”
A small cry came from outside in the corridor. The footman admitted the nurse who swept in with young John in her arms. Nurse placed him on his unsteady feet.
Sibella jumped up and crossed to where John staggered across the flowery Aubusson carpet on his short solid legs.
“May I pick him up?”
“I’m sure he won’t mind.” Hetty looked lovingly at her son. “John can never get enough cuddles.”
Sibella held the small compact body in her arms and put her nose to his soft dark hair. Babies had such a lovely smell. “He favors his father, doesn’t he?”
“He has Guy’s blue eyes and his black hair, I’m pleased to say.”
“Oh, but your hair is beautiful, Hetty,” Althea said.
“I never liked mine much.” Hetty screwed up her nose. “And I’m not at all fond of men with red hair. They are often bad-tempered.” She started and gasped. “I’m sorry, Sibella. Do forgive me. Lord Coombe’s hair is so dark a red one might think…” her voice trailed away in embarrassed silence.
Sibella laughed. “Lord Coombe’s hair is auburn. If he has a temper, I’ve seen no evidence of it.”
Baby John spied the plate of cakes and wriggled in Sibella’s arms. With a demanding cry, he pointed a chubby finger.
“No, my darling.” Hetty came to take him from Sibella. She hugged and kissed him as he cried in protest. “You shall go to the nursery for a proper tea.”
She handed him to his nurse, and the door shut on the noise the rambunctious baby made.
The conversation drifted to society gossip and the latest fashions.
“I must go,” Althea said, putting down her napkin. “I promised to escort my aunt to Debenhams.”
Left alone while Hetty saw Althea to the door, Sibella reflected on what she had learned about Coombe’s wife. Their marriage had not been a happy one. Had they argued? She suspected Coombe’s censure would be hard to bear.
“Althea is like a lovely doll, isn’t she?” Hetty said, when she returned.
Sibella laughed. “Just don’t let any man try to treat her like one.”
“I’ve only recently made her acquaintance. She certainly seems a spirited woman.”
“Perhaps she’s had to be. The marriage was arranged and not a happy one.” Sibella rose. “But I also must take my leave. Thank you for a lovely afternoon. Please come for tea at St. James’s Square very soon.”
“Thank you, I’d love to.” Hetty descended the stairs with Sibella. “Will you and Lord Coombe take a house in London?”
Sibella tamped down the rush of anxiety tightening her chest. “I’m not sure. He hasn’t warmed to the idea.”
Horatia nodded and said nothing.
“Your baby is adorable,” Sibella said with a pang of yearning.
“Isn’t he?” Hetty fingered her necklace. “Guy has a man stationed outside the house. He follows Nurse when she takes John for an airing.”
Sibella’s eyes widened. “Why?”
Hetty shrugged. “Guy thinks I don’t know, but I saw him conversing with the fellow. I watch from an upstairs window. When Nurse pushes the perambulator down the street, the man detaches himself from behind the tree across the road and follows her.”
“I’m sure it’s just a precaution,” Sibella said, attempting to make light of such a worrying development. “Lord Fortescue is obviously an indulgent father. It’s unusual among the ton, but I find it endearing.”
Hetty’s lips trembled and her tongue darted out to lick her lips. “I suppose that is the reason for it.”
“I’m sure he would tell you if there was something else.”
“The slightest hint of something untoward and he’ll be determined to send John and I back to the country.”
“And you don’t wish to leave him.”
“It’s silly, I know,” Hetty said with a shrug. “It’s when he’s away from me and I don’t know what he’s up to… But I must put baby John first now.”
“Of course, you must, caring for John is of utmost importance. But I’m sure there’s no need for you to worry.” Sibella hoped she was right. It was odd, and she wanted to discuss it with Strathairn. Where was he? Might he be on a dangerous mission? She paused as she pulled on her gloves and shivered; the breeze had suddenly turned cold.