Chapter Twenty-One
Strathairn put up at a coaching inn in Tunbridge Wells on his way to Brandreth Park. As he was shown to his room, he wondered how he would tell Chaloner and the family the news about Moreau without causing them alarm and anxiety. There was no way, he just had to tell them. He couldn’t bear any harm to come to Sibella or indeed the rest of the family. He would stress to them the security arrangements that Parnham had made at the cathedral.
The next day, after a sleepless night, as thoughts of Sibella filled his mind, he drove his phaeton through the gates at Brandreth Park at mid-morning, eager to see her again.
The butler, Belton, assisted him out of his greatcoat. “The family are in the salon, my lord.”
Strathairn entered the room where the dowager sat with Vaughn, Chaloner, Lavinia, and their children.
“Strathairn, you have arrived in time for luncheon,” Chaloner said. “We received your note. What news do you have?”
“It may spoil your appetite, Chaloner. I wish I didn’t have to tell you this.” Strathairn took a seat as a stunned silence settled over the room as he talked.
Chaloner leaped from his chair before Strathairn finished speaking. “This is beyond the pale! We shall have to delay the wedding. Or hold it in another church. St. Georges, Hanover Square perhaps.”
“I doubt the duke and duchess would agree to that,” the dowager said, seemingly unruffled by the news. “They planned their son’s wedding at St. Paul’s the day he was born. And you can hardly ask the Regent to order a change in his itinerary.”
“It’s your decision, naturally,” Strathairn said. “It’s the opinion of the home secretary that if the assassin does strike, it will be at the Grand Gala held at Vauxhall Gardens, under the cover of Signora Hengler’s fireworks display.”
“Surely that must be the better choice of the two,” the dowager said. “I read of it in the London Times. Madame Saqui plans an astonishing ascent on the tightrope, amidst a brilliant display of fireworks.”
It sounded feasible, but Strathairn remained uneasy. “If the wedding takes place, rest assured, St. Paul’s will be surrounded by guards and more will guard the interior. Discreetly, of course.”
“Well, it sounds like pure conjecture to me.” Vaughn leaned back and crossed his arms. “I say we allow the duke to make the final decision on the matter.”
“That’s sensible, Vaughn.” His mother directed a fond smile at him.
Vaughn pushed himself to his feet and stretched, puffing out his chest. “If you can spare Strathairn, I need to discuss business with him.”
Strathairn stood. “After which, I’ll say my farewells and continue on to Lamplugh Abbey.”
“A noisy coaching inn for luncheon? Nonsense,” the dowager said. “You’ll eat here, of course.”
“You must, Lord Strathairn,” Lavinia said. An ethereal looking woman, fine-boned and delicate, but the look she gave her mother-in-law was sharp.
Chaloner nodded. “Yes, I’d welcome a chance to talk further to you on this.”
Strathairn bowed. “Thank you. You are most kind, but surely, it’s inconvenient. I expect the whole family is here.”
“Sibella and Maria are not.” The dowager fixed him with one of her challenging stares. “They are visiting Harry’s parents.”
“Then I shall have the opportunity of explaining the situation to them there this afternoon,” Strathairn said.
“You won’t scare Sibella,” her mother said. “She wouldn’t have Maria’s wedding spoiled for anything. She is a game one.”
He couldn’t help smiling. “I’m aware of that.”
“High time you were,” the dowager said with a lift of her brows.
Chaloner grimaced. “Mother, please.”
His mother ignored him, her eyes on Strathairn. “My son Bartholomew will journey from York to preside over Sibella and Coombe’s wedding.”
“You will be pleased to see your son again, my lady,” Strathairn said, refusing to be drawn.
The dowager gave a sharp nod. “I shall speak to you before you leave, Strathairn.”
“Certainly, my lady. I await your summons.” He smiled slightly and bowed, then followed Vaughn from the room, wondering what the imperious dowager marchioness had in mind for him. Surely, it was a little late to chide him. Or was she as worried about Sibella as he was?
*
“Brown, don’t just stand there dripping on the step. Remove yourself and that umbrella along with you,” Coombes yelled at the hapless groom.
“Henry!” Pulse racing, Sibella hurried forward to take Coombe’s arm. “I thought I’d missed you. I rode over from Lamplugh Abbey. Mama has given me some lovely furniture and I hope to find places to put them.” She drew back. “But, you’re drenched through. You must change immediately. What has happened to prevent your journey?”
Coombe’s dark inscrutable eyes wandered over her. Apparently, he liked what he saw for his brown eyes brightened. “The storm has caused chaos. Floodwater washed down from the north. A bridge is damaged and the road impassable. We were forced to turn back.”
“How annoying for you.” Sibella’s mind whirled. She must get away from here before he discovered the missing letters. But how? “I’m sure you are in need of a hot drink.” She nodded at Mrs. Elphick, who stood waiting, her hands clasped at her waist. “After you’ve changed your clothes, Henry, please join me in the dining room.”
“I’m not as wet as all that,” Coombe said. He put a foot on the stair. “Come and show me where you propose these pieces of furniture to go. What are they?”
She struggled to breathe normally as she mentioned several pieces her mother would never part with. “The Chippendale desk and a pair of Louis XV chairs which are quite exquisite. They would be perfect for my bedchamber which I gather is the room to the right of the stairs?”
“There’s a perfectly nice desk in that room already,” he swung around to look at her.
“Yes, but I wish some of my own things around me. You will allow me that, won’t you?” She fluttered her lashes, hoping the effect pleased him. A flirtatious, shrewd woman would have better luck with Coombe.
“I’m not sure about Chippendale though,” he called down, having reached the top.
Conscious of a rustle at every step, Sibella was forced to follow him to continue the conversation. “But Chippendale made beautiful things. Do you not agree?”
“In the right setting.”
They reached the landing. Coombe walked along the corridor and threw open the door to Mary Jane’s chamber. He stood aside for Sibella to enter.
She hesitated.
With a warm glance, he waved her in. “Well? Come in and show me where they are to go.”
She stepped into the room but stayed by the door. “I thought to replace the small desk over by the window. I require something larger for the considerable amount of correspondence I write.”
He took her arm and drew her into the room. “What’s that infernal crackling noise?”
She flushed. “It’s not very polite of you to mention it, Henry. It’s to do with my underwear.”
He raised a brow. “Is it? How intriguing.”
“Not intriguing, I assure you. Too much starch. It’s… embarrassing.” She prayed he would leave the matter alone. “Now, shall we have tea?”
“In a while.” His study of her became disturbingly possessive. “I must say, I’m surprised to find you here. Alone.”
“My groom waits for me at the stables.”
“Does he? Then he shall wait a while longer.” She stilled when he took her by the shoulders, then slid his hands down her arms to pull her against him. He lowered his mouth to hers. Sibella’s breath caught, she was conscious of the letters, which must press against his thigh as he pulled her against him, his hands roaming down her back. His breath hissed against her mouth, his kiss hard and possessive, and not at all like his previously chaste kisses. She tried not to gag at the smell of Makassar oil he used liberally on his hair. When she recalled what Mary Jane had written, she had to struggle with the desire to push him back.
He drew away, excited anticipation in his eyes.
“You surprise me.” Her forced smile must have looked suitably strained. “being here like this is quite scandalous.”
“I have kept myself on a tight rein where you’re concerned,” he admitted, causing a rush of horror to weaken her knees. “But we shall be married in just a few weeks, is that not so?”
“But still, alone in a bedchamber. Our conduct will be talked about in the servants’ quarters. I confess I don’t feel comfortable about it.”
“My staff wouldn’t dare.” He sighed. “Very well. Go to the drawing room. I’ll be down directly.”
Relieved, Sibella hurried to the staircase. She wasn’t sure he believed her feeble explanation for the rustling. Would he think to check that the letters remained in their hiding place? She fought to stay calm when panic threatened to turn her descent into an unladylike scramble.
“One moment, Lady Sibella,” Coombe called from his bedchamber.
With a quick indrawn breath, she chose not to hear him. She flew down the last steps arriving in the entry hall in a fluster, and almost fell. The footman stared at her with concern. Above her, Coombe came to lean over the banister rail. “My, you are in a hurry. I merely wished to tell you I will drive you back to Lamplugh Abbey.”
“Would you? Thank you, Henry, so kind.” Relief made her voice catch. “I was meant to be there for luncheon. I’d hate to worry them.”
“I could hardly send you out into the rain on horseback. What would the duke think of me?” He looked pleased as he tugged at his cravat, then disappeared.
Sibella hurried into the drawing room. She took an agitated turn about the room, twisting her hands together. Before long, Coombe entered, dressed in fresh clothing, his hair brushed back. Her gaze flew to his but failed to judge his mood. His eyes reminded her of her mother’s jet necklace she always wore to funerals: gleaming, dark, and hard, and she looked away.