by Amanda Scott
“I didn’t sleep well,” she said without opening her eyes.
He chuckled but didn’t say anything more, and when next she opened her eyes, the post-chaise was clattering over the cobblestones of Queen Square. She had slept through the busy town of Keynsham and the quieter villages of Saltford and Twerton and had not wakened even when Ramsbury put his arm around her and drew her closer so that she might lay her head upon his shoulder.
She sat up, flushing when she realized he had been holding her. “I must look a fright,” she muttered, attempting to straighten her hat and wishing, not for the first time, that chaises came equipped with looking glasses. “What time is it?”
“It is just past one, and you look fine,” he told her, brushing an errant lock of hair from her face. “Here’s the Circus. We’ll be in Royal Crescent in just a few minutes.”
“It seems as though we’ve only just left Bristol.”
“To you, perhaps.” He moved his shoulder as though to work the stiffness out of it, and she smiled ruefully.
“How long have you been holding me?”
“Not so long.” He glanced out the window. “Here we are now. ’Tis as though we never went away.”
“Good heavens, Ned, it’s been days. I hate to think of what may have been happening here in our absence. At the very least, my father will be out of humor.”
“He is never in a good humor,” he pointed out, then fell silent until the chaise drew to a halt when, without waiting for anyone to emerge from the house, he pushed open the door, jumped down, and turned to help Sybilla. By the time her feet touched the flagway, the front door of the house had opened, and Robert had run down to meet them. Ramsbury ordered him to collect Sybilla’s portmanteau and then turned to tell the postilions to wait for him. Turning back, he offered her his arm.
Inside, he drew her into the stair hall and turned to look down at her with a glint of amusement in his eyes. “You will want to refresh yourself and see that all’s well here, Syb, so I’ll take myself off to Camden Place now and come back to dine with you later.”
“But why, Ned? Surely you must be longing to return to Axbridge Park or London. ’Tis not like you to be away from town so long. You could be in Reading by dinnertime.” As she spoke the words, she knew she would miss him and struggled to keep her face from revealing her feelings. It would not do to let him know that he affected her as he did.
“Do you want to leave immediately, then?”
“I don’t want to leave at all,” she replied. Her pulse was racing, and she could not look him in the eye, but by keeping her gaze firmly fixed on the candle sconce just above and behind his shoulder, she was able to keep her voice tolerably calm.
“What?” His expression hardened. “Look here, Sybilla, what game are you playing now? You won’t pretend, I hope, that you have no feeling for me. Not after what happened this morning!”
“What did happen this morning, Ned?” she asked. She felt a sudden emotional surge, forcing words to her lips before she knew the thoughts were even in her mind. “I seem to recall that your interest in that sort of thing was always rather high on any given morning. Was it me you wanted, Ned, or would any woman have done as well? Your Lady Mandeville, for example.”
“Dammit, Sybilla—” He broke off at the sound of the front door opening and closing. Looking over his shoulder at Robert, who had entered with Sybilla’s portmanteau slung over his shoulder, he gripped her arm tightly and urged her toward the stairs. “We’ll talk in the library,” he said shortly.
“We don’t need to talk at all,” she said, trying to free herself.
“Oh, yes, we do,” he retorted, pushing her ahead of him.
Short of pushing back, which could scarcely be counted upon to aid the situation, she had no choice but to go with him.
He waited only until he had shut the library door before saying curtly, “You wanted what happened this morning as much as I did, and you’ll not convince me otherwise.”
“Well, of course I did. I’m human, and, as you’ve pointed out any number of times these past days, we are still a married couple. But it didn’t change what’s really amiss between us, Ned. You never wanted our marriage, after all. You asked me only to oblige your father and then went about seeking your pleasures elsewhere, just as you always had. You continue to think that because I enjoy submitting in bed, I will submit to you in every other way, but I won’t, and it is no use to think I will or that you can simply coerce me. I am staying in Bath. You don’t need me, and my family does.”
“Your family doesn’t need you,” he said furiously. “Only look at Clarissa’s dismay at your arrival and subsequent delight at our departure. And as for your precious Brandon, if you think he was glad to see you, you are deluding yourself. Perhaps when he thought he was badly hurt, he wanted you to look after him But once he realized he’d got off with no more than a nip out of his leg, I daresay if he wanted anything from you, it was money.”
“Well, you’re wrong!” she snapped. “I offered to lend him some and he refused. Said he had all he needed from that foolish wager. So there! Admit you are wrong about that, at least.”
He frowned. “If he had all he needed, ’tis for the first time in his life, even if the wager was a large one, which I’ll be bound it wasn’t. Still, I did pay his reckoning there, and perhaps he’s been careful with what you gave him before. To think that not an hour ago I thought I’d had reason to be grateful for your little fraud.”
She had been staring at him, her anger growing with every word he spoke. Now she said grimly, “What I gave him! My little fraud? You still believe I asked your mother for money!”
He sighed. “It doesn’t make any difference now, Syb—”
“Oh, yes, it does!” She fairly spat the words, then stepped away from him and pointed toward the door. “Get out and don’t come back, Ned, for I promise you, if you seek to gain entrance to this house again, you will only humiliate yourself. Now, go!”
White-faced with anger, he glared at her long enough to make it difficult to hide her fear of what he might do. But then, without a word, he turned on his heel, and when he had gone, she collapsed onto the nearest chair and burst into gusty sobs.
VIII
THE NEXT TWO DAYS passed slowly, but Sybilla blamed the dismal weather for her depression, telling herself that she didn’t care a whit what Ned chose to do. In any case, according to his aunt, who paid Sybilla a morning call the day after their return from Westerleigh, he had gone to London.
Lady Lucretia’s visit was an ordeal, for she clearly thought a reconciliation had been in the offing, and was determined to discover just exactly what mischief had transpired to defeat it. Sybilla managed to fob her off well enough, but by the time her outspoken guest had gone, she had acquired a pounding headache that continued to plague her throughout the day and evening. She did her best to ignore it, concentrating upon household duties in a futile attempt to put other thoughts out of her mind.
The next day remained overcast. She hadn’t slept well, and she awoke with a raw throat, a stuffed head, and a rasping cough. When her footman informed her that Mr. Saint-Denis had come to pay her a call, she was sorely tempted to refuse to see him. But she told herself that nothing that had happened was Sydney’s fault and, asking Robert to show him up to the drawing room, did her best to appear cheerful and welcoming.
Sydney seemed to be his usual self, charming and insouciant, and he had brought her a small present of an Oriental watercolor. Collecting such things was another of his little hobbies, and the gesture pleased her, but though she thanked him prettily, she thought he regarded her narrowly more than once, and he stayed only the requisite twenty minutes. As he as leaving, he asked her more bluntly than was usual with him if she was feeling quite the thing. She reassured him, but when he had gone, her depression set in more heavily than before.
By the next morning, despite a still-raw throat and slight headache, she decided she had shaken off the worst of the chill she had contracted,
and when first the sun broke through the clouds and then the morning post was found to contain a letter from her sister, she began to feel better. That feeling lasted only until she had opened Mally’s letter.
Gasping at the first line, which informed her that Mally rather thought she ought to acquaint dearest Sybilla with the fact that she was about to elope with her lover, Sybilla continued to read rapidly, her dismay increasing with each word of the letter until at last she jumped to her feet and rang for Robert. He entered the room a few moments later to discover his mistress pacing the floor in her impatience.
“What is it, m’lady?”
“I find I must leave for London at once, Robert. Have my phaeton—Oh, good God, has my phaeton been returned?”
“Yes, m’lady, Mr. Charles’s man returned it yesterday; however, you ought to kn—”
But Sybilla was in no mood for conversation. “Excellent,” she exclaimed. “Tell Newton I shall want the bays, Robert, and to have the phaeton brought round in twenty minutes’ time.”
“Begging your pardon, m’lady,” Robert said, drawing himself up but watching her with a wariness that ought to have warned her, “but I cannot carry such an order to the stables.”
“Good heavens, Robert, what can you mean? Have you not just said the phaeton is there? It has not been damaged, I hope, because if it has, I shall have something unpleasant to say to several persons, believe me.”
“No, ma’am, the phaeton is in excellent condition, for with my own eyes I saw Newton polishing the wheels yesterday, but—”
“Then there can be no possible reason for not bringing it round immediately. If Newton is indisposed, have one of the others take his place. It will slow my pace a bit, for no one else knows my ways so well, but that cannot be helped, I sup—”
“M’lady,” Robert blurted, greatly daring, “Sir Mortimer has forbidden you to drive your phaeton beyond the city boundaries without a proper gentleman escort to accompany you!”
“What? What can you mean? My father never interferes with my activities.”
“ ’Tis fear of footpads or highwaymen, no doubt, for there have been reports of such on the London Road, but here, m’lady,” the young man added hastily, pulling a folded, sealed paper from the pocket of his livery jacket when Sybilla’s eyes began to flash dangerously. “I was to give you this message if you requested the phaeton.”
She snatched it from him, tore it open, and scanned the contents. “Oh, of all the despicable things! How dare he! Oh, not Papa, of course, but—” She broke off, biting her lip, recognizing belatedly that it would be highly improper of her to divulge such thoughts to her footman.
Sir Mortimer had certainly scrawled the note, for his hand was unmistakable, but the orders just as certainly had come from Ramsbury. Her father had written only that it had come to his attention that she was in the habit of driving about the countryside without a proper gentleman escort, and that she was not to do so again. But who else besides the earl, she wondered, would have had such influence with Sir Mortimer as to stir him to write such a message, let alone to issue such imperious, not to mention humiliating, orders to his servants?
As she was struggling to contain her temper, one of the younger footmen entered, only to pull up short on the threshold when he noted her expression, his manner becoming instantly wary.
“Forgive me, m’lady,” he said diffidently, “but Mr. Saint-Denis has called. Shall I tell him you are not at home?”
“Yes, certainly!” Sybilla snapped, glaring at him. But even as she said the words, she changed her mind. “No, wait, show him up. I want to speak to him. Robert,” she added when the other had fled, “order my phaeton to be ready within the hour, and if anyone tries to put you off, tell him I will have a proper escort. Now, go! Quickly.”
Not daring to argue more than he had already, Robert turned at once to obey her order.
A moment later, when Sydney entered, Sybilla was standing before the looking glass, hastily smoothing her hair. Watching him in the glass, she saw him raise his quizzing glass and peer at her through it.
“Primping, my sweet? For me?”
She turned, forcing a smile to her lips. “Just tidying myself, sir. How do you do?”
He did not reply at once but stood where he was, quizzing glass lowered, albeit still grasped lightly in his right hand. She found his steady gaze oddly more difficult to meet than his casual glance through the glass had been, but the searching look was gone so quickly that she decided she had imagined it when he said in an amused tone, “I believe that at the moment ’tis more appropriate for me to ask how you do. You have been a trifle down pin of late, have you not?”
“Perhaps but I am perfectly stout now, I thank you, Sydney. ‘How do you do’ is only a greeting, after all.”
“So it is. But you don’t deceive me, you know. I knew yesterday that you were not in the bloom of health, but there is more ailing you now than reddened eyes and a stuffed-up head. What’s amiss, Sybilla? Sir Mortimer gone a-wenching?”
Her lips twitched despite her mood, and she tried to match his light tone. “Don’t be absurd. ’Tis the most awkward coil. I find that I must go to London, and Ramsbury—odious man—has taken it upon himself to issue orders forbidding me to leave the city without a gentleman escort. If Brandon were home, of course, there would be no problem, but, as it is—”
“Ramsbury issued the order? Forgive me, but from what I observed the other day, I’d have thought—”
“Oh, to be sure”—she spread her hands in a dismissive gesture—“If that were all, I would pay him no heed. He has no right to command me … Well,” she added defensively when Sydney’s eyebrows lifted in gentle query, “he does have a certain right, I suppose, but he has been no sort of husband at all to me these past months, after all. The fact is that he has somehow managed to convince my father to forbid my driving out alone, and of course, the servants obey Papa, and it would be most unbecoming in me to countermand his orders.”
“Dear me, could you do so?” Sydney asked.
His look of mild interest made her smile at last. “No, I could not, but how unhandsome of you to point that out. Look here, will you go with me? I promise I won’t put us in a ditch.”
“Yes, I’ll go,” he said promptly, “but would we not do better to hire a post-chaise? The weather these days is uncertain at best and ’twould be a deal more comfortable, particularly in view of your present uncertain health.”
“The weather is fine, and so am I, and I’ve had my fill of post-chaises for a while,” she said grimly. “I can go as fast or faster driving myself, and then I’ll have my phaeton in town if I want it. You know it is my habit to drive myself. I shan’t allow Ramsbury or anyone else to deny me that pleasure. Will you truly go with me?”
“But certainly. It will add a certain dash to my reputation to be seen careering about the countryside with a beautiful married lady. How soon do you wish to depart?”
She chuckled, relaxing for the first time since she had opened Mally’s letter. “I’ve ordered the phaeton to be at the door within the hour. I know you do not generally choose to move with speed, sir, but if you could see your way clear to …”
“I shall do my poor best,” he said, smiling as he turned away. At the door he looked back. “I say, Sybilla, you haven’t told me why you must rush to London. ’Tis none of my affair, of course, but I hope you are not chasing after Ramsbury. It won’t help that cause for you to arrive in town with me in tow.”
“No, of course not,” she replied, startled that he could think such a thing, “How dare you imagine that I would go chasing after that dreadful man!”
“Well, then?”
“If you must know, my idiotish sister, finding her social calendar empty of more interesting activities, has decided to run off with Viscount Brentford, whose last great achievement, as I recall, was to kill a man in a duel. Unfortunately, he did it before Mr. Canning and Lord Castlereagh had their little set-to last September, or he w
ould have had to flee the country afterward. Instead, he means to flee now with my sister.”
Sydney’s eyes widened, but he replied in an admirably well controlled manner, “I see. Very well, Sybilla. I shan’t keep you waiting long.” And he was gone.
Controlling an odd desire to burst into laughter at his casual reception of such news, Sybilla hurried to her bedchamber, ringing for Medlicott and commanding as soon as she arrived, “Pack my portmanteau again, Meddy. I’m off for London to look after Miss Mally. She’s taken it into her head to do something she ought not to do, and I must stop her. I’ll need you there, of course. ‘Twill be best if you follow later in the traveling carriage with my trunks, but pack what I’ll need immediately in a bag I can carry with me in the phaeton.”
“Oughtn’t to be driving in an open carriage in this cold weather,” Medlicott said as she moved to open the wardrobe.
“Nonsense, it has stopped snowing, and as you can see for yourself the sun has been shining all morning. The roads will be perfectly clear, I’ve no doubt, because of the mails, so the drive will only invigorate me and clear my head. Now, don’t be dawdling about. I shall want my woolen habit, I think, the blue one. And the long yellow cashmere scarf, as well, to wrap around my throat. It is not so sore today, but I do not want to arrive in London sounding like a frog.”
“Foolishness,” Medlicott muttered, greatly daring. “That chill you caught at Westerleigh hasn’t left you yet, m’lady, whatever you say. You’ll make yourself dreadfully ill with all this chasing about the countryside. And I heard tell, too, that Sir Mortimer said you wasn’t to—”
“It was not my father who sought to curb my activities, as you probably know perfectly well,” Sybilla said, reaching the end of her patience. “Papa’s only concern is for his own comfort, so the only time he thinks of me at all is when something disturbs him that he thinks I ought to attend to. Then, if I am not here, he scrawls out an order for someone to send for me.”
“Aye, I know, right enough, which means it were the master himself who said you wasn’t to travel alone.”