One Forbidden Evening (Zebra Historical Romance)

by Jo Goodman

  “I hope you will,” Wellsley said. “She enjoys discussing those halcyon days. Your aunt is still living and resides elsewhere, or is it that she’s deceased?”

  “The latter. Years ago. Lady Beatrice Sharpe, she was called. Her house is mine now. My niece is going to take it all in hand, which I count as excellent since I have neglected the property.”

  “It is always pleasant to find commonalities and refine upon them,” Restell said. “I would like to point out, however, that there are no cards in the middle of the table.”

  Lady Rivendale nodded. “Quite right you are. It is my lead, is it not? Yes, of course it is.” She reviewed her cards and made a selection. The others followed, and in short order the trick was hers. Satisfied with her play, she smiled at Ferrin. “There, we are returned in good form with no harm done.”

  Ferrin’s eyes darted toward his brother. “I believe Restell is disappointed that we have won the point.”

  The countess was at once solicitous. “I propose a change of partners following this hand. Mr. Wellsley and I—in celebration of our newly discovered commonality—will challenge you and your brother. How does that suit?”

  “Very well,” Restell said, struggling to contain his eagerness. “Though it is only fair to warn you that Ferrin and I are accounted to be unbeatable when we are paired.”

  “I believe that is about to change,” Ferrin said wryly. “Unless I am badly misreading Lady Rivendale’s designs for us, Restell, we are about to be trounced.”

  And so they were.

  Cybelline’s arrival at the Sharpe house on the outskirts of Penwyckham came about late in the afternoon. With the days being so short of light now, it was already nightfall when the carriage finally stopped.

  Looking out the window, Cybelline saw at first glance that there was no one to welcome them. The house was dark. There were no fires laid, nor any candlelight. What she could see was courtesy of moonshine and the carriage lanterns, and she thought it was perhaps a better introduction to her new home than if she had come upon it in the full light of day.

  The house was much larger than she had envisioned. She counted ten windows on the ground floor, five on either side of a wide oaken door. There appeared to be a like number on the first story, though it was difficult to know with the profusion of ivy growing up the sides and across the shutters. It was also not possible to know the color of the bricks, though she suspected it was ochre that had long since gone to a dull, muddy brown. The path leading to the front door was in wont of crushed stone to make it a smooth entrance. Cybelline had to pick her way carefully across a series of ruts before she reached the steps. There were only two leading up to the house, and as soon as she stood on the first, she knew it to be badly listing.

  Behind her, she heard Nanny Baker’s footfalls. She turned to make certain Nanny did not misstep on the uneven ground. Anna had her small arms wrapped about Nanny’s neck. “Perhaps attention has been paid to the inside,” Cybelline said.

  “That would be a mercy.” Nanny Baker did not indulge herself or her mistress in being hopeful. The square, broad planes of her face were set obdurately even when she was not in expectation of unpleasantness. Comfort and such encouragement as she was moved to give were saved for her young charge. “A pure mercy.”

  Cybelline sighed. “You are certainly in the right of it there.” She took another step up and placed her hand on the door. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that the servants were moving quickly to join her with Webb leading the charge. It was Mr. Kins, the driver of her carriage, who stepped up to join her at the door.

  “If I might be so bold as to make a suggestion, ma’am,” he said, “it might be better if I was to go first. See the lay of the land.” He held up the lantern he was carrying. “Leastwise, you don’t want to go in without this.”

  “What we will do, Mr. Kins, is to proceed together. The door is certainly wide enough to accommodate our entrance.”

  He grinned, showing a gap between his front teeth. “It is that.” He nodded to her, indicating she should give the door a nudge.

  Cybelline was surprised to find that the door swung open quietly. Lady Rivendale’s caretakers evidently kept the hinges oiled, and she allowed herself to believe this was a good omen. In point of fact, it signified nothing.

  The house was every bit as cold as she imagined it to be. None of them dared removed their outerwear until fires had been laid in the drawing room, servants’ hall, and the kitchen. This necessitated requiring the youngest, and more important, the slimmest of the grooms accompanying them, to perform the services of a sweep and unblock the flues. It was not in any way to his liking, but he had the sweet encouragement of one of the maids and the threat of Mr. Kins boxing his ears to spur him on.

  Cybelline had had the foresight to list candles among the things she wanted to be packed. They used what they brought until they found a drawer filled with tapers of middling quality in the dining room. Someone stumbled upon the lamp room and at long last there was light sufficient for a more thorough inspection of the home’s interior.

  Cybelline’s first order then was to establish a nursery for Anna and adjoining accommodations for Nanny. A charming room on the uppermost floor was located, or at least Cybelline believed it had the potential to be charming once the walls were repainted and morning sunlight lent its own cheer. The furniture was too large for Anna, but Cybelline was hopeful that she could commission a carpenter in Penwyckham or other nearby village to craft a bed, table, and chairs more in keeping with her daughter’s diminutive size. The armoire was perfectly satisfactory and the appointments in Nanny’s room were sufficient to her needs and comfort. Once a fire was laid and clean linens were placed on the beds, Cybelline arranged for supper to be brought to Anna and Nanny. As the larder possessed few supplies and they had little left in their own hampers, porridge was the best that could be managed. Anna was infinitely more agreeable to this than Nanny Baker.

  It was quite late when Cybelline slipped into her own bed. Webb had warmed some bricks and placed them at the foot of the mattress. Cybelline had begged her not to bother and encouraged her to seek her own bed, but Webb ignored her, and for once Cybelline was glad that she had. Stretching, Cybelline cautiously pointed her toes toward the source of the heat and snuggled more deeply under the covers. The bedding was not as fresh as she would have wished, and tomorrow all of it would be stripped and dragged outside for a proper airing.

  Upon leaving London, Cybelline understood that her small entourage would not be adequate to care for the home at Penwyckham. Though she wished she might be able to report otherwise, Lady Rivendale’s confidence in the Henleys was indeed misplaced. On the morrow, Cybelline decided she would send out Mr. Kins with notices that she was hiring a cook and housekeeper immediately. At least one more housemaid would be required and perhaps a footman. She would rely upon Mr. Kins to tell her how many would be needed to manage the cattle and grounds.

  Thoughts of all that remained to be accomplished clattered around in her head like so many marbles, rolling first one way, then the other, ricocheting with such force that there was always the danger one would escape her notice. There were menus to be planned and the most basic foodstuffs to be purchased. They would need a cow for milking and hens for laying. She did not even know if Penwyckham had a mill or how far someone would be required to travel to buy grain. There was no store of winter vegetables or cured meats. Clearly, the Henleys had not received Lady Rivendale’s correspondence, or they had chosen to ignore it.

  In spite of what was to be done, Cybelline did not lack confidence in her ability to organize and oversee the accomplishment of every task. What she doubted, or perhaps feared, was that it would make no difference.

  This was the thought she could not bear to entertain, thus she was able to fall asleep counting all the labors still confronting her and avoid reflection on the one thing that would have given her no rest.

  Mr. Wellsley stood at the window of the gentleman’
s club he frequented and regarded the passersby on the walk below. He held a glass of port in one hand but had not sipped from it since it was presented to him. He had already turned down an invitation to play cards and one to join a political discussion in one of the salons. He was not at all in a frame of mind to enjoy company. Some might question his decision to set out for the club when he was not interested in participating in any activity, but he knew one was never so alone as when one stood in opposition to the expectations of others.

  He emitted a soft grunt, unconsciously punctuating his disagreeable thoughts.

  “What’s that you say, Wellsley?” asked Ferrin.

  Wellsley pivoted sharply to find that his friend had been standing just off to one side. “How long have you been there?”

  “Long enough to know that you are nursing a black mood. What is toward?”

  “Has it occurred to you that I do not wish to be cheered?”

  “I am gratified to hear it. I wouldn’t have the slightest notion how to go about the thing. I am all for drink at such times, but you do not seem to be of a similar persuasion. I do not believe you’ve touched your port.”

  Wellsley regarded the glass in his hand as if he did not know how it had come to be there. “What? Oh, you know I do not care for this stuff. I should have a whisky. Why do I not have a whisky?”

  Ferrin gingerly removed Wellsley’s drink and replaced it with his own tumbler of whisky. “There,” he said. “It is all the same to me.”

  Wellsley knocked back a mouthful without tasting it. “Go away.” He waved Ferrin off and returned to his contemplation of the pedestrian traffic.

  Ferrin stepped closer and regarded the same view as his friend. “Is that Miss Washington with her mama stepping out of the milliner’s?”

  “You will not be moved, will you?”

  “I don’t believe so, no. It is a large enough window to support two perspectives. I will take the sunny view as you are already in full possession of doom and gloom. I fancy that Miss Washington’s new bonnet looks like an iced cake.”

  “It is a ridiculous confection.”

  “And over there,” Ferrin said, pointing to two men alighting from a hack. “They are sporting matching yellow waistcoats. How would you call that shade? Dandelion? Daffodil?”

  “Jaundice.”

  One of Ferrin’s dark eyebrows lifted in appreciation. “You are very good at this. What a pity you are not more often burdened by such stormy, weighty thoughts. It becomes you.” Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed Wellsley’s mouth twitch. He proceeded cautiously, uncertain if it signified a favorable shift in his friend’s humor or was merely evidence that the whisky had finally settled pleasantly in his stomach. “Look at the parade of lovely ladybirds leaving the booksellers, every one of them a picture to look upon.”

  “That picture hangs above the mantel in my study,” Wellsley said. “Duck hunting.”

  Knowing the painting well, Ferrin gave a shout of laughter. There was indeed some similarity between the vee formation of the young women now crossing the street and the flock of ducks taking to the air in Wellsley’s painting. “I am reluctant to drink my port, Wellsley, lest you make me choke on it.” He paused a beat. “Would that brighten your mood, I wonder?”

  The taut set of Wellsley’s mouth softened a little. “I am all for finding out.”

  Chuckling appreciatively, Ferrin nodded. “I am certain that is the case today. Have I done something for which I must make amends?”

  Wellsley’s sideways glance was sharp. “No. My black humor has nothing at all to do with you.”

  “I am glad to hear it.” He did not press further, but neither did he surrender his position. He waited for Wellsley to capitulate and share the nature of what was troubling him.

  “It is Grandmother,” Wellsley said at length. “She is determined that I should marry soon and present her with an heir.”

  “Surely this is not the first time you have heard her lecture on your duty. What has changed?”

  “She has chosen my bride.”

  “Oh. That is a bit sticky. Who does she wish to see you marry?”

  “Do you know Miss Clementina Fordham? The Fordhams reside in Wynterbury in Essex. Miss Clementina was presented last year and had several offers, I understand, though none that was accepted.”

  “She has some prospects, then, that she can afford to be particular. I cannot say that I recall the girl. She is an only daughter?”

  “Yes. There are two brothers, I believe. Both older.”

  “Her parents are not necessarily eager to see her settled, mayhap.”

  “No, they are desirous of a good match for her.”

  “Is she in any way objectionable?”

  “To marriage?”

  “To you.”

  Wellsley frowned slightly. “I do not recall her well. She is pretty enough as I think on it. And accomplished in the same manner most young women are who are fresh from the schoolroom.”

  “Then…?” Ferrin let the word hang there as a question.

  “Bloody hell, Ferrin, I don’t love her. What does any of the rest of it matter? I am in love with someone else.”

  That was certainly plain enough. “Have you told Lady Bellingham the same?”

  “No.”

  “I see. I am forced to inquire why that is.”

  “For the same reason I would not tell you or Restell. I have not yet declared myself to the young lady.”

  “Again, why?”

  Wellsley’s square jaw became rigid as he clenched his teeth. A muscle jumped in his cheek. “For all the reasons a man does not usually declare himself: cowardice, inadequacy, impoverished wit in the female’s presence.”

  Very much afraid that he would laugh, Ferrin chose silence as his best recourse until he could respond in a more solemn vein. “Devil take it, Wellsley, but you are in love.”

  Wellsley snorted. “Was I unclear before?”

  “No, but—” He stopped because his friend was turning away and downing what remained of his whisky.

  Wellsley raised his empty glass and garnered the attention of one of the footmen. “I am all for getting foxed. Hadn’t thought about that end when I came here, but I believe it is just the thing for me.”

  Ferrin had not planned on spending more than an hour at the club. Indeed, he had come in search of Wellsley to beg a favor. After seeing his friend in such a pitiful state, and now so determinedly on a course toward complete inebriation, he knew he could not abandon him. “Let us sit, shall we? If we are to end up facedown on the carpet, then it should not be from so great a height as we are now.”

  “Good thinking. You will see me home, won’t you? I walked.”

  “I will deliver you there myself.”

  “Excellent.” Wellsley was now in possession of another whisky. He made a point of waiting until they were seated before he drank.

  Ferrin leaned back into the deep leather armchair and stretched his legs before him. Fragrances peculiar to all the clubs were captured in the leather: tobacco smoke, fine brandy, man sweat, old cards, and cologne. The high standards of a gentleman’s hygiene as promulgated by Brummell were not yet widely practiced. When they were, Ferrin thought, the chairs would have to go.

  He raised his glass of port. “Shall we drink to something? A woman’s penchant for changing her mind, perhaps.”

  “If you are thinking that my grandmother is one of those women, then you are sadly out of it.” He shrugged. “Though it could not hurt to salute the possibility, could it?”

  “Indeed not.” Ferrin matched Wellsley’s salute and they both drank, though Ferrin did not do so deeply. “Tell me, this woman you are in love with, is her family in any way an impediment to your making a match?”

  “Don’t know. Sometimes I think yes, other times no. The father likes me well enough, I believe, and would not oppose my suit. Whether the mother would countenance a match is more difficult to know.”

  “Mayhap she is the one
you need to impress.”

  “Do not think I haven’t tried. You will not credit it, but it seems I am damned by the company I keep.”

  “But you keep my company. Oh, I see what you are saying. This mama does not care for me. Have I offended her?”

  “I shouldn’t think so. It is just that you are accounted by society to be a rogue. As you are unmarried yourself, it should not be of such import, but I am painted with the same brush.”

  “But you are unmarried also.”

  “Yes, but I am not of a mind to continue in that wise.” Wellsley took another swallow and was hit with inspiration. “Do you know what I think the answer is?”

  “Did I miss something? I have not heard a question.”

  “There is no question. It is a problem I have, not a question.”

  Ferrin thought he probably should not be so amused by Wellsley’s earnestness. If his friend would just admit that it was Wynetta he loved, all would be resolved. Of course, Ferrin was not certain that his sister was that young woman, and he was reluctant to embarrass either of them by acting on that assumption. “Pray, do not make me wait. If you have arrived at a solution, I should like to hear it.”

  Wellsley finished his whisky and indicated he would have another. “You will have to marry.”

  “I will have to marry? That is not what you said, is it? I cannot have heard that.”

  Afraid he was slurring his words, Wellsley repeated his statement, enunciating carefully. “You-will-have-to-marry. Don’t you see? It is perfect. Even you can be redeemed by marriage. Standing in the ideal light that you cannot help but cast about you, I will look very good indeed for having a friend with such sound judgment.”

  “It is my judgment that excessive drinking has disordered your mind.”

  “My thoughts have never been so ordered.”

  “Then I am foxed.”

  “Is there no one, Ferrin?” Wellsley asked. “I cannot believe there has been no one to engage your interest since Miss Lewis left your protection. By my reckoning, that was six months ago.”

  “There was never any discussion of marriage with Miss Lewis, Wellsley. She was a diversion and set up nicely to be one.”