by Amanda Scott
“You and I will discuss the matter further in the morning,” he said. “In the meantime, I would prefer that you say nothing to my mother about her erstwhile guest’s attempted burglary. Or to Cousin Judith, if you please.”
She nodded, able to discern no threat in his voice, only calm, but she knew he must be vexed, and while she told herself firmly that she did not fear his anger, she could not pretend that she looked forward to hearing what he would say to her in the morning. Glancing again at the gypsy, she saw that he was relaxed despite what must be an uncomfortable position, and she felt a surge of irritation. A common thief ought at least to fear the consequences of being caught in the act, but the gypsy clearly feared Sydney’s wrath no more than she did. Perhaps less. Salas’s manner was not precisely insolent, but he was clearly amused by something she did not understand.
“You will forgive me,” Sydney drawled, “if I suggest that your attire is not appropriate to the company. Ching Ho has, of course, inured himself to the oddities of western culture—chiefly to those habits of western women that would be forbidden to Chinese ladies—and doubtless your friend Salas won’t object to your nightdress, but if you mean to remain here, you ought at least to fetch your slippers.”
Looking down in dismay, she thought she understood the gypsy’s amusement, though the realization did nothing to ease her irritation with him. Glaring at him, she snapped, “You ought to be flogged for this.”
Salas smiled. “A female has greatest beauty when her eyes flash sparks, missy. Salas likes very much.”
“Go back to bed, Caro, now,” Sydney said, but if there was a snap in his voice on the last word, she didn’t hear it, for with her face burning with fury at the gypsy’s words, she spun on her heel and strode angrily from the library. Not until she was back in her bedchamber, lying stiffly under her quilt, did she remember Sydney’s promise that they would talk in the morning.
She did not sleep well. It was not the first time that one of her jokes had gone amiss, but it was the worst. The fact that she had so wildly misjudged the gypsy was bad enough, but that Sydney had known him for what he was all along was singularly deflating. She had been so certain he had been deceived. Not for the first time she cursed the way his polished manners concealed his thoughts. She squirmed at the thought that she had not considered the likelihood of his knowing the gypsies were camped on his property. Then she squirmed more, remembering that Ching Ho knew what she had done, that she had so foolishly put the house and its occupants at risk.
Unlike Miss Pucklington, she stood in no awe of Sydney’s Chinese manservant, but she did have respect for him. Although he possessed none of the stately hauteur of the other upper servants, his dignity was flawless and his manners, in their own way, as polished as his master’s. Though he was of slight stature and medium height, he possessed the confidence of a man of size, and she had often wondered what his position had been in China before he had agreed to accompany Sydney to England. To imagine him a prince or king of some sort had been easy, but when she had repeated this fantasy to Sydney, he had laughed.
“Not even upper class,” he had said. “Only a man with certain talents who needed me as much as I needed him, and who can live better here than in China.”
The manservant had betrayed neither awareness of her state of undress nor knowledge of her prank, and had stood by with little expression on his face during her conversation with Sydney. Still, she knew he would have had to be both blind and deaf not to know precisely what had transpired, since his English was excellent, better even than the gypsy’s.
She did not want to think about Salas, but no matter how many sheep she counted, they kept looking like him or like Sydney, for the only thing she could find that would banish Salas’s image from her mind was the unwelcome anticipation of what Sydney would have to say to her on the morrow.
V
AFTER CAROLYN STORMED FROM the library, Sydney signed to Ching Ho to close the door, then looked down at the gypsy. “I think you are going to be a nuisance, my friend,” he said.
Salas, his smile as bright as ever, said, “It is true that gentlemen do not like their affairs spoken of to others, and a magistrate’s court is a most public place, sir. And, too,” he added with a smirk, “the lady is most beautiful.”
Sydney tapped his glass against his open hand. “Almost you tempt me,” he murmured.
The smirk vanished, and Ching Ho said swiftly, “If you have sympathy for others, my master, they will have sympathy for you.”
“Will they, Ching? I wonder.” But after a brief silence, he shrugged. “Let him go, I suppose. See him off the premises and make it clear to him that he and his tribe are no longer welcome at Bathwick Hill. That will annoy your father, I believe,” he added gently, looking back at Salas.
The gypsy grimaced and said no more. Ching Ho stooped to untie his knots, and satisfied that his man might be trusted to see the gypsy camp vacated by morning, Sydney left and went up to his bedchamber. The gypsies were the least of his worries. More important was how he was going to deal with Carolyn, for there was at least one complication resulting from the evening’s events that he had decided she would have to rectify by herself.
When he thought of her eruption onto the scene in the library, he suddenly wanted to laugh. She had looked so dismayed and so childlike with her bare feet and her hair in a tangle that he had even felt a brief urge to comfort her, although he could not remember ever having a similar urge when she had spent her school holidays with his family at Swainswick. Then, he had quite frequently wanted nothing more than to strangle her.
Realizing that these thoughts did nothing to assist him in deciding what to say to her, he removed his dressing gown and got into bed to consider the matter at length. Instead, he found himself remembering what she had looked like after her mad dash down the stairs, with her dressing gown half open, her blue eyes wide with dismay, and her bosom heaving. The memory was a pleasant one, and he allowed it to linger until he fell asleep.
When he awoke in the morning, he still had little idea of what he intended to say to her, but he realized it would be best for them to have their discussion where they would not be overheard. That much decided, he rang for Ching Ho, dressed with his usual care in buckskins and top boots, and made his way to the breakfast parlor. It was still too early for his mother or Miss Pucklington to put in an appearance, but he doubted that Carolyn would keep him waiting long.
When she entered a half hour later, he was still there, seated at his ease, his attention on the newspaper he was reading. A rack of toast at his elbow, three pots of jam, and a cup of coffee were all that remained of his breakfast. He glanced up. “Good morning,” he said. “I trust you slept well.”
Carolyn had not slept well, and was in no good humor as a result, but she murmured a polite response and moved to examine the dishes on the sideboard. When a footman appeared in the doorway to ask if she wanted anything from the kitchen, she did not reply, being aware only of Sydney, sitting behind her, doubtless watching her and waiting to say whatever it was that he meant to say. She had lifted three lids without seeing what was beneath them before she could stand the suspense no longer and turned sharply to face him. To her surprise, he had laid down his paper and was inspecting the contents of one of the pots of jam through his quizzing glass.
“Sydney, I—”
“Do you think this jam is blackberry, or something else?” he inquired, looking up at her.
“How should I know? Look here, Sydney, I know—” She broke off, flushing when he looked pointedly at the footman.
“Will you hazard a guess, Fredericks?” he asked.
The footman grinned at him. “Don’t know what it is, sir. To my mind, jam is jam.”
“Then I daresay we won’t need you any longer, unless—” He glanced at Carolyn. “Do you want tea, Caro?”
“No, thank you.” She turned away and began to scoop food onto a plate, paying no heed to her selections, filling time only until the d
oor had shut behind the footman. When she turned again, Sydney had ventured to put jam on his toast and was looking at it as though it would now reveal more of its nature to him. “Sydney, I never meant—That is,” she added in confusion when he looked up at her with the same expression with which he had been regarding the jam, “you must think I was a fool to—”
“Not a fool precisely,” he said, setting the toast down and picking up his paper as he got to his feet and moved to hold her chair for her. “We will not discuss it now, however. Perhaps you would care to ride with me later. At eleven, shall we say?”
Since it was clear that despite his toast he had no intention of staying to chat, there was nothing to do but accept his invitation; however, once he had gone, she had no appetite left for her breakfast. Though she was not looking forward to the interview, she had wanted to have it over and done. Her emotions were no less mixed when she found him waiting for her on the front drive an hour later.
Cleves and Sydney’s own groom were with him, holding the horses, and Sydney stepped forward to meet her. “I thought we would ride toward Bathford,” he said. “I have not ridden that way for some time, and I thought you would enjoy seeing a bit of the old Roman road to Cirencester.”
Something told her she would enjoy little about it, but she agreed, watching him closely while he helped her mount to see if she could detect any sign of anger. There was none. Still, she could not doubt he was vexed with her, for she knew how much he valued his treasures, many of which he had acquired during his two years in China. In any case, what man could possibly accept with fortitude a thief introduced to his household?
Sydney said nothing to the purpose until they were well away from Bathwick Hill House and the grooms had fallen a considerable distance behind. By that time, Carolyn was fidgeting in her saddle, casting covert glances at him, trying to imagine what he would say. When he casually complimented her riding habit, she could stand it no longer.
“Please, get on with it, Sydney,” she said sharply. “You must have a number of things that you wish to say to me, and I cannot deny that I deserve to hear most of them, but you can’t think for a moment that I knew Salas would steal from you.”
“He didn’t steal from me,” Sydney said calmly.
“No, but only because your servants discovered him in time and were able to subdue him. Don’t quibble.”
“Very well, I shan’t. I don’t think you knew for certain that he was a thief before you introduced him to my household, Caro, so I will acquit you of malicious intent.”
“Thank you.” But her conscience pricked her just then with an echo of her own declaration to Brandon that all gypsies were thieves, and her cheeks burned at the memory.
Shooting her an oblique glance, Sydney said, “You have nothing for which to thank me, I’m afraid, for although I acquit you of malice, I cannot acquit you of spite unless you can tell me you had reason for what you did beyond a misguided wish to prove me wrong when I said I know more than you do about men like Manningford and Lyndhurst.”
He looked directly at her then. His expression was as amiable as ever, and she would have given anything to be able to assure him that she had any number of other reasons. She could not do so, however, and the shrewdness of his insight made her uncomfortable. She wished he would smile.
A note of resentment crept into her voice when she said at last, “You ought never to have said such a thing to me, Sydney. You made me angry, and when I get angry with you, I …” She glanced at him ruefully. “Well, you know what I do.”
“I do,” he said dryly. “I expected, at the very least, to find grated red pepper in my snuff pots.”
Grimacing, she said reminiscently, “That was one time I did get a reaction from you. Usually, in those days, you ignored my pranks, deeming them unworthy of notice, but that time you were vexed and told me not ever to do it again.”
“That time,” he said with a small, reminiscent smile, “I discovered your prank only after I had taken the tainted jar to Oatlands, where, having refilled my box, I offered the first pinch to none other than the Prince of Wales.”
“Goodness,” she said, awed, “you never told me that!”
“I didn’t think it good for you to know how much you had embarrassed me,” he said. “His highness has had the kindness to respect my expertise in certain matters, including snuff, which is a hobby we share, but at that time I was a callow youth and feared his sneezing would be the death of him. Such a prank today, when his regency has reminded him of his mortality, would make him think me in league with his enemies to kill him.”
“Well, I wouldn’t do such a thing now,” Carolyn said, diverted, “but he cannot truly believe anyone wishes him dead. Even Godmama does not wish such a thing, though she has small opinion of the royal family.”
“’Tis only a few months,” Sydney said, “before his Regency becomes unconditional. Prinny knows he stands in the way of those who are tempted by such power. But I do not wish to talk about him. You ought to have recognized the danger of your joke, Carolyn. Gypsies are scarcely noted for their integrity.”
“I know, but Salas seemed different.”
“Only in that he is tall, dark, and handsome.”
She glanced at him suspiciously. “What do you mean?”
“Your judgment of him was no better than your judgment of Lyndhurst, or of Manningford.”
“You think I trusted Salas only because he is handsome?”
“Your reasoning doesn’t signify in the least,” Sydney said, “since it was clearly as faulty as your judgment. In any case, I am more concerned with another aspect of the matter, which is your willingness to allow others, innocent of offense to you, to be taken in by this man. I hadn’t thought you capable of such insensitivity, Caro. You disappointed me.”
Sudden tears sprang to her eyes, startling her as much as the unexpected ache in her throat did, and she found she could not speak for several moments. Dashing a hand across her eyes, she fought for control and was grateful when she looked at him to see that Sydney was apparently interested only in the road ahead.
When she was able finally to speak, she said brusquely, “I realized last night that I ought not to have involved Godmama or Puck, but there is no need for them ever to know what I did. I told them Salas wanted no one else to know he was in B—Oh, dear! The servants! Surely one of them will tell your mama what happened in the night.”
“No servant will tell her,” he said quietly.
“Are you certain?” When he nodded, she said on a note of relief, “Then there is no reason to disabuse either Godmama or Puck of the notion that they have met a foreign count.” After a pause, she muttered, “I am very sorry for what I did, Sydney, but at least they will not know what a dreadful hoax it was.”
“I’m afraid you will have to tell them,” he said quietly.
“Oh, no, I won’t! Why should I? Godmama would never understand, and Puck likes thinking she has met a foreign count. What harm can it do?”
“You are not still thinking clearly, Carolyn,” he said, “or you would not need to ask about the harm.”
She stared at him, seeing an inflexibility in his expression that she had never seen before. Wanting very much to understand him, she mused aloud, saying slowly, “The magistrate will hear the whole tale, of course, and then others will hear, and Godmama will—” She broke off as her thoughts whirled into an enticing tangent, then exclaimed, “You need not charge him, Sydney! Set him free. He did not actually steal anything, after all, and I am certain he will not try to do so again.”
“He is free,” Sydney said. “The entire camp moved out this morning, doubtless heading south to a warmer climate. I had no wish for Mama to learn about the burglary, nor did I wish to see the whole sorry tale made a gift to the Bath quizzes.”
“Then why do you not leave well enough alone?” she demanded, angry at the thought that he wished only to avoid being made to look foolish and seemed to have no concern for how she would look.
“Why tell Godmama or Puck anything about it?”
“Do you honestly think they will not find out if we don’t tell them?” he asked, unruffled by her display of temper.
“Barring the servants—and you say they will not tell—no one else knows anything about it!”
“Manningford knows.”
“Well, he won’t talk.” But even as she said the words, she wondered if they were true. There had been no reason before to swear Brandon to secrecy, and while he did not know yet about the burglary, she would have to tell him. Since he never minded making himself the butt of his own tales and rarely concerned himself with the feelings of others, she knew she could put little faith in his remembering any promise she might winkle out of him now about keeping such a good tale to himself.
Sydney was watching the changing expressions on her face, and he said now, “Just so. Even if he does not speak, do you think Mama will not soon be telling everyone she knows about her mysterious count? Bad enough if her bosom bows only wonder why none of them has ever heard of him. Much worse if they find out the truth and Mama is made to look the fool.”
Carolyn paled at the thought. “That would be dreadful. Oh, Sydney, I never meant any of this. I wanted only …” But she could not finish, comprehending as she did now that she had acted out of pure impulse and ought to have thought her plan through more carefully before doing something that might have hurt them all. “I’m sorry,” she said, swallowing tears and hoping he would not see how distressed she was.
“No need to tell me that,” he said quietly, “and if you talk to Mama today, no real harm will have been done, for I doubt she has had time yet to post any letters or talk to her friends. This road we are turning onto now is more than a thousand years old. Come on, and we’ll give these nags some exercise.”
Following willingly when he spurred his sleek bay hack to a canter, she was grateful for the cooling effect of the crisp air, and astonished that so ancient a road was still in good repair. When he drew his horse up again a quarter of an hour later, she saw with rueful amusement that scarcely a single fair hair was out of place beneath his hat. He was not breathing hard, and she could not imagine how he did it. Tendrils of dark hair curled about her face, and her hat tilted drunkenly over her brow.