When Sebastian returned to his bedchamber, he found Milsom waiting up for him. During their years in India, the loyal batman had perfected the art of sleeping for short intervals, always managing to rouse himself at the slightest noise or sign of movement. He did so now, emerging from the dressing room with upraised eyebrows and a rather impertinent expression on his face.
Sebastian pulled his shirt off over his head, exposing a bare back and chest that were riddled with scars. He tossed the garment carelessly onto the end of his bed. “Well?”
Milsom picked up the discarded shirt. “My lord?”
“You look damnably smug, Milsom.”
“Do I, sir?”
“If you have something to say, say it.” He paused. “Unless it regards Miss Stafford and myself. In which case, I’ll thank you to keep your mouth shut.”
Milsom’s eyes danced. “I’ll not say a word about Miss Stafford, my lord.”
“A wise decision.” Sebastian sat down to remove his boots.
“Except to mention that I took the liberty of enquiring after those letters of hers earlier this evening.”
“What?” Sebastian glanced up. “Enquired of whom?”
“Miss Craddock.”
“My sister’s maid? What the devil would she know about anything?”
“It is only a trifle, my lord. And no secret at all. Hardly worth the effort of discovering it.”
“Go on.”
Milsom bent to retrieve Sebastian boots. “According to Miss Craddock, Lady Harker learned Miss Stafford’s whereabouts from a Miss Cavendish who, in turn, learned them from a Lady Ponsonby. Lady Ponsonby employs Miss Stafford’s former lady’s maid. A woman by the name of Harriet Button.”
Sebastian was instantly alert.
“I understand,” Milsom continued, “that Miss Button was employed by Miss Stafford for many years and was very much in her confidence. She was also highly esteemed by Sir Roderick Stafford.”
“And how did Craddock come by this fascinating information?”
“It seems that Lady Harker requires Miss Craddock to read the post to her each morning whilst she is…” Milsom cleared his throat discreetly. “…in her bath.”
Sebastian grimaced. It sounded like Julia. She had never been a great reader. And she delighted in being coddled by anyone willing to do it. “Am I to infer that Craddock read this letter from Miss Cavendish?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Sebastian rose and began to work on the buttons of his trousers. “You’re right, Milsom. A useless trifle.”
“As I said, my lord.”
“Nevertheless…” He stripped off his trousers. “I require you to catch the train into London first thing in the morning.”
“To speak with Miss Button?”
“Precisely.”
“I thought she might be of use, my lord.”
“You thought right,” Sebastian said. Clad only in his drawers, he went to the washstand in his dressing room. “It was Miss Button who was tasked with posting Miss Stafford’s letters to me.”
Milsom paused in the act of draping his master’s trousers and shirt over his arm. “You believe that she meddled with them?”
“It would seem so.” Sebastian poured a ewer of cold water into the washbasin. He plunged his head into it, holding it for a moment, before raising it again to find Milsom at his side, proffering a towel. He took it and proceeded to dry his face and his hair. “I suspect the letters were never sent. I would like to know why.”
“The reason seems plain to me, sir.”
“And to me,” Sebastian said. “But Miss Stafford won’t believe her father had a hand in all of this without proof. She is loyal—even to those who don’t deserve it.”
“You want me to find proof that Sir Roderick was to blame?”
“I want you to discover the truth if you can. Whatever it is.”
“I shall do my best to find out, my lord.”
“You may as well take a small purse,” Sebastian said. “Any former servant of Sir Roderick Stafford will not be averse to taking a bribe. I daresay they might expect one. And Milsom?”
“Yes, sir?”
“I want to know everything, no matter the cost.”
Approximately six hours later, Sylvia stood on the empty train platform in Apsley Heath, her carpetbag clutched tight in her gloved hands. She was wearing the same dark gown she had worn on the journey down from London, the same mantle buttoned at her neck, and the same silk bonnet on her head, its ribbons tied snug beneath her chin in a plain, uncompromising bow.
It had been surprisingly easy to find someone willing to bring her to the station. She had simply gone down to the kitchens at dawn and enquired of the cook. Mrs. Croft was a motherly woman. A kind woman. One look at Sylvia’s swollen eyes and tearstained face and she had promptly summoned an old manservant from the stable yard.
“John,” she had said. “Best hitch up the dog-cart. Young miss here must catch the next train down at Apsley Heath.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he had replied.
The next thing Sylvia knew, she was seated behind the old manservant in a rickety little one-horse carriage hurtling toward the neighboring market town. He had asked her no questions, thank goodness, only speaking to her once to bid her safe journey at the train station. And then, with a tip of his cap, he had gone.
She was alone again.
Alone and bitterly disappointed with herself.
Last night, she had come within a hair’s breadth of falling into the same trap that countless women had fallen into before her. She had nearly allowed herself to be ruined. And not by some random rake or rogue preying on innocent governesses—though that would have been terrible enough—but by Sebastian Conrad. The very gentleman who had broken her heart three years before.
The worst part was, she could not even blame him for it. The whole encounter, from its very start, had been entirely her own fault.
What in the world had she thought would happen when she caressed his face and pressed kisses to his scars? She had practically thrown herself at him! Naturally he would react. She would wager that any woman—whether duchess or scullery maid—who had treated him thus would receive the same passionate response. Sebastian was merely a man, after all. And she had been a ready and willing woman. A woman in her nightgown! She could die of embarrassment.
She walked the length of the train platform and then back again, her fingers clenched so tightly on the handle of her carpetbag that her knuckles cramped beneath her gloves. The wind was high and chill gusts stirred the dirt and soot from the platform around the hem of her sensible skirts. But she hardly noticed the grime or the weather. Nor did she notice the smattering of people beginning to mill about—ticketholders, like herself, waiting to catch the early train to London. She was far too restless and overwrought.
“In the morning you and I are going to talk about a great many things,” Sebastian had said. “We are going to come to an arrangement.”
How confident he had been that she would become his mistress! As if she were so madly in love with him that she would be content to have him in any way she could get him. As if she would tolerate being exposed to scandal and degradation and all for…what? The dubious distinction of being the kept woman of an earl?
Come to an arrangement, indeed!
As it was, no one would ever know that she had been compromised during her ill-fated trip to Hertfordshire. But if she consented to an affair with Sebastian, she would risk not only her reputation, but her livelihood. The Dinwiddy’s would never permit a ruined woman to teach their young daughters. They would cast her out without a reference.
And what if she should fall pregnant?
Sylvia’s stomach roiled at the thought.
It would be shameful. She would be shunned by everyone she met. No decent person would have anything to do with her. Worst of all, she would be entirely dependent on Sebastian’s good will. He could cast her off whenever he chose. And with his volatile temper, who knew when that would be?
Yes, she told herself, the consequences of such a liaison would be dire indeed. That much she understood. What she could not understand was why, despite knowing how much she stood to lose in the bargain, she felt such an ache for Sebastian, such a terrible temptation to return to Pershing Hall and live with him however he would have her for however long as he would have her.
You are as reckless as Papa, she thought with disgust. To even consider throwing your life away for the sake of a few moments of excitement, a few moments of pleasure.
It had taken years to mend her heart when Sebastian had broken it the first time. Years to build a new life for herself. She could not put herself through it again. She would not. Because if she did, it would be worse. So much worse. Three years ago he had only courted her and chastely kissed her lips. Last night, he had crushed her to his chest in a fiercely possessive embrace. He had ravished her mouth with his. He had told her that he wanted her.
Heat flooded her face at the memory of it. She bent her head, shielding her blushes from view behind the protective brim of her bonnet.
A moment later, she was jolted from her self-recriminations by the roar of the approaching locomotive. She watched it chug into the station, a sense of numb resignation settling into her heart. It came to a stop alongside the platform with a screech of grinding metal. A handful of passengers disembarked. Sylvia waited with the other ticketholders while the porters unloaded their luggage. It did not take long. Apsley Heath was not a popular destination, especially at this time of day.
“All aboard!” the conductor cried.
She tightened her hold on her carpetbag and began to make her way to the second-class railway carriage. There was nothing else to be done, she thought miserably. Any future with Sebastian was impossible. And the revelations about their long ago letters to each other had not changed a thing. They were two different people now. From two different worlds. It was best if she returned to hers and resumed her life as a governess. It was the right thing to do. The safe thing to do.
When it was her turn to board, a porter stepped forward to take her elbow. She thanked him for his assistance and then, after one last, anguished look at the Hertfordshire landscape, she stepped onto the train that would take her back to London and out of Sebastian’s life forever.
As a result of staying up the better part of the night, Sebastian slept until midmorning. When he awoke, Milsom was already gone.
So was Sylvia Stafford.
“A maid went to her bedchamber at half past ten with a breakfast tray,” said Julia, “but her room was empty and all of her things were gone. I sent Craddock to enquire if anyone had seen her and—can you believe it!—she discovered that one of the grooms drove Miss Stafford to the train station in a dog-cart. At dawn!”
Sebastian had been sitting in front of his mahogany dressing table, attempting to knot his cravat when his sister burst into his room. It now hung loose round his neck, forgotten, as he listened to her in stunned silence.
“She will be hours and hours away by now. And all I have in explanation is this note she left for me on her pillow, which says—” Julia let out a short yelp as Sebastian swept it from her hand.
He unfolded it, reading Sylvia’s words with something akin to desperation.
My Dear Lady Harker,
I am returning to London. Forgive me for not taking proper leave of you and your brother. I realized last night that it was a mistake to have come and wished to depart at first light. My life is in London now. As a governess. Indeed, I am very happy there. One cannot revisit the past, no matter how much one might wish to do so. It can bring nothing but pain. I hope you will understand and accept my apologies for any inconvenience my departure may have caused you.
Yours Sincerely,
Sylvia Stafford
Sebastian read it again, deeply shaken. One cannot revisit the past. She had said that last night in the library. Had she known, even then, that she was going to leave him? Had she ever had the smallest intention of staying? Of discussing their future together? He had not formally proposed yet, it was true. She had been far too upset. But surely she must have known his intentions.
Was being a governess so much more desirable than being his countess? And was he such a monster that she must flee his home in secret at the first light of dawn?
Good God, he felt like a prize fool.
Julia fluttered around his dressing room wringing her hands. Her hair was still in its nighttime plait and she wore an elaborately printed dressing gown buttoned up to her throat. “If you will only finish dressing, you might ready a horse and go after her. You could still catch her if—”
“I am not going after her.”
Julia watched, eyes widened in dismay, as he turned back to the mirror and yanked off his cravat. “What? I thought that you wished her to stay! And why aren’t you getting dressed? Oh, where is Milsom? Milsom!”
“Milsom is away on an errand.”
“Then I shall help you! Where is your coat? And a fresh cravat? You must hurry, Sebastian. I insist upon it.”
“I am not going to London,” he said roughly. “I have not left the estate since I returned from India. You, of all people, know why.”
She reddened. “Yes, but surely you would be willing to go now. If it means you might win Miss Stafford.”
Sebastian looked at his reflection in the central mirror of his dressing table. In the bright light of day, it was difficult to believe Sylvia had covered the heavily scarred face he saw with kisses. Indeed, the more he thought of it, last night seemed to him nothing but a wishful, desperate dream. “I am not going to London,” he said again.
She spun toward the door of his dressing room. “Then I shall go—”
His hand shot out to catch her wrist. “You will do nothing of the sort,” he said in a voice of dangerous calm.
Julia’s eyes filled with frustrated tears. “Someone must fetch her back! I want you to marry her. And why can’t you? Surely anything is preferable to being a governess in Cheapside!”
He visibly flinched.
“What did you say to her?” she demanded.
“Nothing.” No, he thought bitterly, he had just kissed her. Held her in his arms. Told her that he cared for her so, so much. Bloody hell. He had panted and groaned over her like an uncivilized brute. How in blazes had he thought she would react? She had left the library in tears, for God’s sake. He had probably repulsed her.
“You must have done else she would not have left! And I know that she was not frightened of your injuries. To be sure, she did seem a little sad, but she—” Julia’s mouth fell open. “Oh no! Was it my fault? Was it something I said? But what could I have said?
“Aside from telling her that at any moment I might blow my brains out just as her father did?”
Julia jerked her hand away, making a dramatic show of rubbing her wrist. “Do you think it was because I said that I wished her to be my sister? To marry you and make you well?”
Sebastian groaned. “Good God.”
“I admit, it did seem to alarm her. Though I told her right away that it was nothing but a foolish fancy.” Julia’s brow creased. “Do you suppose she has another sweetheart? She said that she was not married, but she never said anything about a beau. And she is ever so pretty, Sebastian. Which is even more reason you must go at once to Cheapside and fetch her. If she knew she might be a countess, I daresay she would throw over whoever it is that is courting her now.”
He dropped his face into his hands. Again, the specter of those other men! Her suitors had cut her acquaintance after her father’s suicide. He had been reminding himself of that fact ever since they parted last night in the library. But just because the gentlemen of polite society had shunned a connection with Sylvia Stafford did not mean that she had been sentenced to a life of lonely spinsterhood. She was a governess now, true. But a beautiful, well-bred governess. No doubt there was a line of suitors stretching from Cheapside to Mayfair. Solicitors. Doctors. Merchants. Gentlemen schoolmasters. Sebastian conjured them all in his mind, each one handsome and elegant, soft spoken and kind.
“Out,” he said to his sister.
“But Miss Stafford—”
“Out!” he thundered. And as his sister scurried from the dressing room and out of his apartments, closing the door loudly behind her, he felt the mortifying sting of tears in his eyes. He swallowed raggedly against the bitter swell of three years of pent up grief and misery. The loss of Sylvia Stafford. The death of his father and brother. The loss of his friends and his comrades in India. The damage to his face. The physical pain and mental anguish.
He felt in his pocket for the lock of hair, closing his fingers tightly around it, as if it were a lifeline thrown to a drowning man. It had always had the power to bring him back from the abyss. But now, as he held it against his cheek, he felt nothing. Nothing at all.
It was merely a symbol, he realized. A lifeless, soulless apology for the real Sylvia Stafford.
And the real Sylvia Stafford was gone.