Chapter Thirteen
Foul air and clamor greeted Strathairn when he arrived back in the city. Seated at his desk in the library, he dashed off a note to Edward explaining that Vaughn was safe and enclosing Vaughn’s few lines addressed to Sibella explaining why he wished to remain at Linden Hall. He sprinkled sand over the letter, shook it, and folded it. Hesitating, he took a fresh sheet of bond, dipped his quill in the inkpot, and scrawled a brief missive to Sibella. If you should wish to learn more, I shall be riding in the park tomorrow at noon. He didn’t attempt to examine his motives too closely, aware that seeing her wouldn’t be helpful to either of them. But at least he had done what he promised and found Vaugh. Or Vaughn had found him. He instructed the footman to deliver the note before he changed his mind.
Strathairn rode into the park just before noon, with a glance at the sky. The rain held off but dark clouds threatened. Might she not come?
Sibella was too good a rider to favor the Ladies’ Mile. She often rode earlier in the day before the Beau Monde gathered. He was dismayed by how pleased he was to see her riding with her groom. He rode up and reined in beside her. She greeted him, her green eyes alight with gratitude. “I can’t tell you how relieved I was that Vaughn is safe at Linden Hall.” He allowed his gaze to take in her green riding habit which matched her eyes. “I’m immeasurably grateful,” she said. “You must tell me the whole.”
“Your brother sought his fortune at the race tracks,” Strathairn said. “I managed to persuade him to work in my stables. He seems keen to learn more about the stud. Always a strong interest of his as you know. And a far healthier endeavor than the life he pursued in London.”
“Oh, how clever of you!”
“Not so clever. I shall gain from the arrangement. I can’t be there as often as I’d like, and already, Vaughn shows some aptitude for the work.”
“It’s the perfect answer and most kind of you to take him on.”
His heart warmed to see her smile. He noted the violet shadows beneath her eyes as he studied her pale face framed by her black riding hat. “Edward tells me Lady Aida and Lord Peter have a daughter.”
“Yes, Catherine Ann. She’s a perfect peach.”
“She takes after her Aunt Sibella?”
Sibella steadied her mount as they grew closer to a couple riding ahead of them. “She has the Brandreth’s coloring. She favors my mother.”
“Then she will be a beauty.”
“I expect so.”
“And you have danced attendance on the babe and her mother? Day and night, forgoing sleep, I assume.”
Sibella tilted her head. “Why, my lord? Do I not look my best?”
“You are as beautiful as ever, if a little tired around the eyes.”
“You never were one to mince words.” Sibella dropped her gaze to the reins in her hands. “My fascinating new niece does not tire me. There is a lot to be done in preparation for the ball and Maria’s wedding. That is all.”
“Lady Sibella?”
“Ah, here is Lord Coombe come to join us.” Sibella’s tone sounded overly bright, and he found her smile strained.
Strathairn stayed long enough to exchange pleasantries and then excused himself. The charmless Coombe obviously disliked finding him with his fiancée. He left the park and rode home, disappointed at having so little time with her. What a fool he was. Did he seriously believe that Coombe would permit their friendship once they’d married? He delivered his horse to the stable mews and entered the house, his shoulders tense. Was he being unfair to the man? He questioned his motives and found that he just didn’t like the cut of Coombe’s jib.
*
Strathairn’s butler, Rhodes, delivered the mail on a silver tray. A letter bearing the Fortescue crest caught Strathairn’s eye. He slipped his thumb beneath the wax seal and unfolded the letter scanning the contents. Guy had news of great interest. He would be there at two and hoped to find Strathairn at home.
Curious, Strathairn ploughed through the rest of his correspondence while listening for the door knocker.
As the clock struck the hour, a wild-eyed Guy burst into the room.
Strathairn pushed back his chair and rose to greet him. “My friend, were you not in the country? What has brought you to my door with such urgency?”
Guy threw himself down in a leather chair. “Tiens! You’ll never credit it. Yesterday evening, I escorted my cousin, Eustace Fennimore, to Lord Bromehurst’s gaming hell in the alley behind St. James’s. You were with me when we found him in his cups a year or so back. Fennimore is an inveterate gambler who mixes alcohol with the laudanum prescribed for his gout to an alarming degree. When he asked me to accompany him, I agreed, because I feared he would be robbed, and possibly murdered for his purse. Hetty is fond of her godfather although why she does eludes me.”
The butler entered carrying a decanted bottle of wine and poured them a glass each. Guy drummed his fingers on the arm of his leather chair. The door closed on Rhodes. “Please continue,” Strathairn said impatiently.
“Forney’s wife was there again,” Guy said.
Strathairn sat up straight. “You saw her? Last night?”
Guy nodded. “As bold as you please, this time attired in a startling crimson affair, which caught my attention as I entered the room. I made sure she didn’t see me. She had old Lord Crutchet hanging off her arm.”
“That reprobate. I wonder what brought the countess to London. Did you manage to discover where she stays?”
“She is Crutchet’s guest in his ancient pile in Richmond.”
Strathairn put down his glass. “The deuce! If I leave now, I’ll likely find her at home.” He glanced at the clock as he moved to pull the bell. “Depending on the traffic, I can be there by four.”
Guy’s smile became bitter. “As her husband almost sent me to a watery grave, I’ll accompany you.”
The carriage made good time, and they alighted just before dusk in a leafy Richmond street close to the Thames. Lord Crutchet’s grotesque mansion sat amid a grove of twisted cypresses. “While I speak to the countess, you make a search of the house,” Strathairn said.
A butler almost as old as Crutchet answered the door. He dithered as he studied Strathairn’s calling card, his eyes widening when Guy leaned toward him, his big hand on the door jamb. “The countess doesn’t receive guests at this hour.”
“She will see me.” Strathairn pushed the heavy wooden door open. The frail, unsteady butler gulped audibly. “Please wait in the antechamber and I’ll ask if the countess will grant you an audience.”
Guy climbed the stairs as another elderly servant, dressed in Crutchet’s livery with baggy hose clinging to his knobby knees, scurried into the hall. “Sir! You cannot go upstairs.”
“Never mind, my good man,” Strathairn said. “Either send Countess Forney to me or my friend will bring her down bodily.”
He bent his head to enter through the low doorway into a musty, heavily beamed room. Velvet curtains at the narrow windows rendered the room as dark as night. The pair of candles on the mantle managed a feeble glow. The house reeked of dust, old age, and chamber pots. He couldn’t imagine the countess enjoying her stay there.
Countess Forney swept into the room in a violet negligee which clung to her curves. “What is that man doing searching the house? On whose authority?”
“Mine, Countess.” Strathairn remembered her as a woman who was aware of the power of her beauty and knew how to use it. She made little deference to widowhood. Her abundant dark hair flowed in loose curls down her back making her appear as if someone had just tumbled her into bed. It would not be Crutchet.
“I make no apology for my dishabille,” she said haughtily. “I was dressing to go out. You have called without an appointment and must take me as you find me. And if you wish to discover where my husband is, you’ve come on a fool’s errand.” She remained standing and did not invite him to sit.
Strathairn folded his arms. “Where is Count Forney, countess?”
“He is dead. I assume you haven’t come to offer your condolences.” She tilted her head. “What, you don’t believe me? It doesn’t say much for your intelligence service, does it? You won’t find him here. So, please, leave.”
“I wish to learn the circumstances of his death, if you please.” Strathairn leaned against the back of a chair, revealing no hurry to quit her company.
Her eyes narrowed. “His ship, bound for Marseilles, sank in a storm in the Mediterranean Sea near Palma.”
“The name of the ship, Countess?”
She shook her head. “My, but your intelligence is inferior. The Sea Serpent. Not a large or particularly seaworthy vessel. But the best he could find at the time.”
“How can you be certain he didn’t reach shore?” Guy walked into the room with a shake of his head at Strathairn. “He might have settled down with another woman somewhere in Spain.”
Her nostrils flared. “Forney would never have left me willingly.” She studied the rings on her fingers. “One of the crew survived and brought me news of him.” She moved toward the door. “Please go. I am still in mourning for my husband.”
Strathairn glanced at the bright silk and blond lace barely concealing her bosom. He remembered Guy said she wore crimson, not black or deep violet in the gambling hell. “Nevertheless, I’d like you to return to Whitehall with us, Countess Forney. Please, would you dress?”
She stiffened. “I have an engagement this evening. There is nothing more I can tell you.”
“Then we shall not keep you long.”
*
The day of Sibella’s betrothal ball dawned wet and dreary. The ballroom at St James’s Square had been subjected to a flurry of preparation for days. Urns of flowers decorated every corner. Crates of champagne shipped from France were chilled in the cellars. The menu for a large quantity of delectable foods was selected. Rooms seldom used were prepared with toiletries in the dressing rooms for the ladies and gentlemen, and extra servants brought up from the country to attend them.
Sibella forced herself to appear happy in her mother’s presence. When alone, she remained unsure of her ability to make Coombe happy, and whether she could be content. She was sure she would never love him. Every time she saw him she made a valiant effort, but always came away troubled. He was perfectly correct in his behavior toward her. She chided herself for being illogical and doubled her efforts to be nice to him. Even her mother found him personable. She had no avenue of escape. She had accepted that Strathairn would not step in and claim her. Her wedding to Lord Coombe was as inevitable as the seasons. She just wished he didn’t unnerve her so. It was as if the real Lord Coombe had not yet revealed himself.
Chaloner had told her how proud he was of her. “You are a sensible woman, Sib,” he said. “And I trust you will be very happy.”
And you are a hypocrite, she’d thought, as she offered him her cheek to kiss. Tired of being called sensible, she was no longer sure it fitted her. Her emotions had been so confused of late. She sighed heavily and chewed her bottom lip as her maid pinned her dress of blush pink embroidered net over white satin. Her hair was pomaded and arranged in loops and pearls graced her throat and ears. She fiddled with an earring and her betrothal ring flashed. The ruby and diamond ring once belonged to Lord Coombe’s mother. He had been at pains to reassure her that Mary Jane had refused to wear the ring as she disliked rubies.
At ten o’clock, the first guests began to arrive. Sibella stood beside Lord Coombe with her mother, Chaloner and Lavinia, to welcome them. In the ballroom, amid a profusion of candles and the glitter of spangles and finery, she danced the first waltz with her fiancé. He led her expertly through the steps, shoulders back, a satisfied smile on his lips. She tried not to compare him with Strathairn. But the differences were glaring. John’s eyes delved deeply into hers when they danced, as if he wished to learn everything about her. Coombe seemed more concerned about the effect they had on those around them. He rarely showed interest in her as a person. Did he consider her an object, a possession?
Her mother said everything fell into place after husband and wife were intimate. She couldn’t imagine the act, her mind closed in horror. Their relationship lacked tenderness and affection as if he only thought of her as a well-born wife with a generous dowry.
As they turned on the floor, her heart skipped a beat at the sight of Strathairn. He talked to Lord Fortescue and Hetty, but his eyes rested on her. She held his gaze until they spun away.
Lord Coombe’s fingers flexed in her hand. “Do you and the Earl of Strathairn know each other well?”
“My brothers know him well.”
“Are you ever alone in his company?”
“I imagine so, he often visits.”
“Your friendship with that man is at an end.” She watched in horrid fascination as a vein pulsed in his forehead.
A frisson of alarm spread through her at his sudden display of emotion. Was the real Coombe emerging before her eyes? “I don’t expect I will see much of him.”
“Never. I’m not asking you. I’m ordering you,” Coombe said through clenched teeth. “Neither riding in the park nor dancing with him, nor seen to be talking to him at social gatherings.”
Never talk to Strathairn again? She had at least hoped for that. She fought not to flinch and give him a reason to continue in this vein. “I don’t like to be ordered about like a servant.”
“Then behave like a respectable woman. I’m aware that affairs take place among the Beau monde, but please know that I will never countenance it.”
She flushed and wanted to pull away from him. Never had she considered breaking her vows. Marriage was sacred. “I don’t need you to tell me how to behave, my lord.”
His fingers tightened as if he sensed her desire to end the dance. “You obviously do.”
“What has angered you so?” She stared into his eyes, then dropped her gaze feeling as if she had glimpsed something illicit and disturbing.
“I saw how you looked at him. This is our betrothal ball. All eyes are upon us. We need to act with decorum. As every sober member of society should.”
Sober! She screamed silently at the humorless man before her. Impossible to imagine him behaving in a spontaneous and joyful way. He was all about appearances. She had long suspected he hid his true character from her and gave her an unattractive glimpse of it now. She grew certain that it was not love that made him pursue her. Her mind whirled and she shivered as the music ended and he led her from the floor. When he gained control over her and her fortune, he would make her life a misery. A husband was able to lock a wife away or send her to Land’s End or Northern Scotland under guard, or not let her out of the house without an escort. She would have a hard time escaping.
How well had he treated Mary Jane? If only she was able to discover more about his past. Uncovering the truth might set her free.