Never Love a Lord

by Heather Grothaus

  “Might I prepare you a toddy?” he offered as she drew near him.

  “Only if you’ll join me,” she said, passing him and pulling at the silent and seamless door that would lead to her table.

  She halted before the door was even a quarter of the way open, easily hearing the echo of quiet voices in the cavernous room beyond. She held up her left hand, signaling Graves to silence, and then slowly pulled the door open a bit more, searching the shadows for the midnight speakers.

  Julian Griffin was pacing slowly in the aisle created by the rows of planked tables, his daughter perched upon his chest, her chubby forearms laid on his shoulder. The nursemaid, Murrin, sat at one of the benches, but her head was laid atop her arms on the table, a piece of sewing forgotten in her lap.

  “Lord Griffin, Madam?” Graves asked in a whisper behind her.

  Sybilla nodded.

  “Is he stealing the fixtures?”

  Sybilla felt herself smile and she shook her head absently. She turned her face slightly to direct her whisper over her shoulder. “He’s walking the child. The nurse is asleep.”

  “Didn’t we give them a room?” he muttered crossly.

  Sybilla understood Graves’s frustration. She didn’t like strangers in her home either, even one as handsome as Julian Griffin.

  Especially one as enigmatic and unnerving as Julian Griffin.

  She couldn’t take her eyes from him as he moved slowly through the shadows of the hall, speaking in a deep, soothing voice to the infant, who was happily chewing on one fist then the other. He seemed quite happy and at peace for such a late hour. They both did.

  Would it have been so terrible had the Foxe Ring legend proved true for them? Sybilla thought no. Perhaps he was not overly wealthy, with lands and title to boast of. But he was closely connected to the king, and since he admitted to making London his home, he was likely well received and respected. He was of such repute as to have commanded a royal match, after all. If the Foxe Ring had worked, and Julian took his information to the king, if Sybilla begged for mercy, would Edward allow a match between them?

  Sybilla didn’t know how deep Julian Griffin’s feelings for her could run without the magical workings of a legend. It meant little to her that he had admitted a desire for her body—even a prostitute could claim to be desired. Soon she would be without her title, without her money, her power—disgraced. Fodder for gossip. Doors closed, invitations ceased. Nothing to recommend her.

  Her eyes followed him closely, marveling at him, up and about in the dead of night, his infant in his arms, while the dumb nurse slept through her duties.

  Sybilla wondered what it would feel like to be comforted in those arms. Possibly heavenly.

  She blinked and frowned.

  “Are we to stand in the corridor all night, Madam?” Graves asked.

  Julian Griffin turned on his heel and presented his back to the slice of room Sybilla could see through the doorway. He began walking slowly once more toward the stairs at the head of the long room, and Sybilla backed into the corridor, pushing the door shut before her.

  She turned to Graves. “I think I shall beg off a drink, Graves. I feel I might be better able to sleep now.”

  The old man stared down his nose at her with narrowed eyes.

  “What?” Sybilla demanded, moving past him.

  “What?” Graves echoed.

  She ignored him, making her way back to her rooms alone, the image of Julian Griffin still pacing running through her mind.

  Chapter 11

  Julian stared at the door in the early morning darkness of the corridor. Even if he had not done his own investigation of the private wing to determine where Sybilla Foxe’s chamber lay, he could not have mistaken it. The door was carved with a fine and intricate design, and its thick coat of black paint marked it as unique from the other doors in the wing. He studied the markings as best he could in the meager light provided by the sconce on the wall behind him, running his fingers over it in spots.

  Leaves of some sort, a long blade—a stylized sword, perhaps, but with a tip that ended in the shape of a serpent’s head. There were words or symbols half-hidden in the design, in a language Julian did not recognize.

  Was it a protective spell? The Foxe family motto? A warning?

  Julian frowned. If he had heeded all the well-intentioned warnings he’d received in his lifetime, he would likely be long dead on some battlefield by now. He raised his hand and knocked twice, his call firm yet not demanding.

  “Come in.” Her voice called to him immediately from beyond the door.

  Although he had been informed by several members of the staff that “Madam” did not take breakfast—in fact, Julian had not seen Sybilla Foxe eat a bite in the days that he’d been here—he was certain that she was up with the sun. And he was right.

  He pushed open the door and stepped inside, unprepared for the sight that greeted him.

  Sybilla was perched in a tall-backed upholstered chair cocked at an angle before a wide table set beneath an enormous bank of windows. Her knees were drawn up, her feet tucked beneath and to the side of her bottom, one arm around her knees, her other hand propping up her chin as she stared out the windows. Her long, dark hair was in a single plait, snaking over her shoulder and unfurling beneath her arm at her hip.

  The peachy sunrise was just a suggestion, its glow seeming to illuminate the silk of her sheer, ivory dressing gown, the lace of it pooling around her bare ankles. It seemed as though she had donned the matching wrapper as an afterthought, for it hung off one narrow, delicate shoulder, her skin taking on the shy blush of the dawn.

  She looked very young just then, much younger than her score and eight years. Young and innocent and very much alone.

  Julian wanted to walk up behind her and cup his hand around the back of her neck beneath her braid, knead the muscles there where he knew they would be tense and aching. He wanted to lean down and whisper into her ear that it would be all right. He would do his best for her. She didn’t have to be afraid . . .

  But he didn’t know that he could promise her any of those things with certainty.

  “I hope I didn’t keep you too long last night,” she said quietly, still looking out the windows.

  “No, but Lucy seemed determined to see the sunrise.”

  Her head whipped around, her light eyes wide, and she instinctively reached for the slipped shoulder of her robe. “I thought you were Graves,” she said in a tight tone, so unlike the voice she’d used just a moment ago, full of concern and caring in those few short words. “What are you doing in my room, Lord Griffin?”

  “I don’t wish to disturb you,” he said, quietly liking the way she had sought to protect her modesty when she’d discovered it was he who had come to visit and not some dusty old steward. It was quite at odds with her reputation, but then Julian was very certain that she was reputed to be many things that she was not. “I plan to start the servant interviews today. I thought you might like to know before I commence, rather than find out midway through the day. I don’t want you to think I am doing anything covertly.”

  “An open book, are you?” she smirked halfheartedly, and then dismissed him by turning her gaze once more toward the windows. “I don’t know what you’re hoping to find by interrogating the kitchen maids. A good recipe for sausage, perhaps. Go on, though. I don’t care.”

  Julian frowned, because it sounded as though she truly didn’t care. “I’ll not be speaking so much with the kitchen staff. Only those who were here while your mother yet lived. I have a list of names.” He paused. “Graves is included, of course.”

  He saw her shoulders hitch and heard her little breath of laughter. “You have a list of Fallstowe servants? By name? You’re quite thorough, Lord Griffin.”

  “I try to be.” He could have left her then, now that he had told her what he planned to do. He should have, really. But he found his feet taking him to stand at the foot of the massive, carved blackwood bedstead that domin
ated the room. It was surrounded by the thickest scarlet-and-gold embroidered draperies he’d ever seen. The mattresses and coverlets and pillows seemed too plush, too decadent, as if made for luring a soul to sin. The furniture itself seemed too large, farcically so, and certainly much too imposing for a woman of such delicate stature as Sybilla Foxe. Julian had the odd and disturbing image of the bedposts gnashing her willowy body, devouring her, the bed’s mouth of mattresses and coverlet tongue swallowing her up whole and with relish.

  He thought of the rumors of her lovers. How many men had pleasured Sybilla Foxe in this bed?

  “Is there anything else, Lord Griffin?” she said wearily. “You seem very interested in my belongings. Would you perhaps care to go through my wardrobe and catalogue my underthings?”

  “Only if I might have something to keep,” he responded cheekily. He looked over his shoulder, and although she continued to gaze through the windows, her lips curled in a small smile, perhaps in spite of herself.

  Julian looked back to the evil piece of furniture. “Did you have this made yourself?”

  “It was my parents’,” she said, but a moment later corrected herself quietly. “Morys and Amicia’s. He had it made for her shortly after they were married.”

  “The carvings on the post resemble those on your chamber door,” he remarked.

  “Mm-hmm,” she responded.

  “What do they mean?” he pressed.

  She turned her head, but instead of her eyes finding him, her gaze seemed to be focused within the heavy draperies of the bed. Her expression was tight, cold, filled with resentment. She turned back to the window.

  “Ask her yourself,” she said coolly. “She’s not let me get a decent night’s sleep since you arrived.”

  As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Sybilla regretted speaking them. Not that she was fearful of his incessant questions, but because it increased the tremendous wailing coming from the bed.

  “Your mother, you mean?” Julian Griffin asked almost hesitantly.

  “That is precisely who I mean. Apparently your presence is keeping her from her eternal rest,” Sybilla said snidely. Then she closed her eyes and gave a brief sigh at the assault on her ears. It felt as though her hair should be blowing back away from her face, so loud were the furious screams.

  “Don’t you feel guilty?” She turned to gauge his reaction and found him considering her thoughtfully.

  “Your mother’s spirit is haunting you,” he said flatly.

  “Yes.” She met his eyes, something inside her daring him to believe her.

  “That’s quite an odd thing to say, Sybilla.”

  “It’s quite an odd thing to experience, Julian,” she retorted.

  “I can imagine,” he said mildly, and turned back to the bed. Sybilla could have fallen from her chair when he raised his arms and waved them at the offending piece of furniture, as if trying to corral an out-of-control horse.

  “Hah!” he called out menacingly. “Get from here, you wretched woman, and leave your daughter in peace.”

  Sybilla snickered lightly at his attempt, but then her face went slack as the chamber fell instantly silent. She looked to the bed, and there was no haze, no rippled shadow.

  “Did it work?” Julian said, his voice full of good humor.

  It was obvious when he looked at her that her own face conveyed great surprise.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “She’s gone.”

  His eyebrows drew together and he regarded her intently. “You were quite serious, weren’t you?”

  Sybilla could barely nod. “Very,” she choked out.

  “Sybilla,” he began hesitantly. “Sybilla, are you frightened of this room? Of... of your mother?”

  She stared at him, considering his sincere expression, the pained deliberateness of his words. She could sense no intent to use trickery or maliciousness.

  And yet, she could not trust him.

  “No,” she said. “Of course not.” She swallowed. “Haven’t you heard? All we Foxe women are witches. We’re used to this sort of thing.”

  He seemed unconvinced by her flippant explanation. “Are you a witch?”

  “Perhaps,” she answered quietly. “Perhaps I am.”

  “Would you like to come with me?” he asked, as if the thought had just occurred to him.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “For the interviews. Would you care to accompany me?”

  Sybilla gave him a sideways look. “Wouldn’t that somehow defeat the purpose, if the lady of the manor hovered over the servants as they were asked questions?”

  “Would you interfere?” he asked.

  “No,” she answered honestly. “None of them know anything of import. Save for Graves, but I can tell you now that you could take him a million miles from me, from Fallstowe, and he would still not divulge whatever morsel of information you seek, did it not please him to do so.”

  “I’ll leave you to dress then,” Julian said promptly and turned on his heel, speaking to her as he crossed to the door. “We shall meet in the great hall in a half hour.” He paused with his hand on the latch and gave her a grin over his shoulder as his eyes quickly swept her form in the chair.

  “Unless you need me to stay—for assistance, of course.”

  Sybilla did not want to return his smile, but it was across her mouth before she could properly fight it back down. “I think I can manage, Lord Griffin.”

  His smile lingered on his face, just as he lingered at her door for a moment longer, and then he was gone. Leaving her sitting with that damned amused smile pulling at her mouth.

  But then the sound, like the slow, building wails of some poor beast in the throes of birth, wound up from within the bed once more.

  Julian Griffin had somehow managed to chase Amicia away, but she was back now, and she was apparently extremely unhappy with her eldest daughter.

  Sybilla shot from her chair and stomped to her wardrobe, throwing the doors open, and ripping through her gowns.

  Although Julian had spoken truthfully when he’d said there were few of the cook’s servants he needed to speak with, there were still one or two, and he chose to begin in that fragrant, humid room both for the surety of the staff’s presence as they prepared the morning meal for the castle inhabitants, as well as the delicious warmth the cove-ceilinged chamber provided.

  He’d hoped to catch them off guard, perhaps surprising them into candor, but he needn’t have worried—Sybilla Foxe’s appearance in the kitchen threw the entire population into an immediate uproar.

  He was surprised at her obvious contrition, and he wondered yet again where the legendary taskmistress of Fallstowe was, for surely this woman could not be she.

  “I apologize for disturbing you,” Sybilla said in a low voice to the short, red-haired cook. She looked around the room at the owl-eyed servants, who were either staring at her stupidly, frozen in mid-task, or frantically engaged in some little job as if their lives at the castle depended on its completion in the lady’s presence. “All of you, please, don’t let me keep you from your duties. I’m only accompanying Lord Griffin, as he wishes to speak with some of the staff and is unfamiliar with the warren that is Fallstowe.”

  “Was yer tea fitting this morn, Madam?” the cook asked sincerely, her eyes searching Sybilla’s face. “The bread crisp enough for you? Here now—you’ve nothing to drink! Hobie! Hobie, get off yer lazy duff and fetch Madam a fresh cup!” The cook’s eyes flicked daggers at Julian. “And one for our guest, His Lordship, as well.” She enunciated his title as if she were pronouncing a foreign phrase for the word arsehole, the consonants cracking like whips.

  “I don’t require anything at the moment, thank you,” Julian said.

  “As you wish, my lord,” the woman said quickly, then dismissed him, turning her attention back to Sybilla. “What does he want from us, Madam? Is he to see us all jailed by the king? What shall we do if you leave? We’ll not carry on if—”

  Sybill
a opened her mouth to answer the woman, but Julian beat her to it. “I’m not here to see any of you jailed. I need only to ask you some questions about your time at Fallstowe, and only a pair of you from the kitchen, as it were.” He looked down at the list in his hand and spoke the names, then raised his gaze, waiting for the mentioned persons to step forward.

  No one moved, save for the young man who was handing Sybilla a steaming mug wrapped in a soft-looking linen cloth. She thanked him quietly and then blew on the surface of the drink before taking a sip, the only person in the room who was not currently staring daggers into Julian.

  He’d not received this kind of loyalty from the men in his outfit while engaged in battle, and Julian was struck again by the thought that Sybilla Foxe’s roots ran very deep into the heart of Fallstowe. Regardless, though, he was here to do his duty, and he would not be denied by servants.

  He cleared his throat pointedly and repeated the names.

  The cook spoke. “The first girl isn’t at her duties today. She’s come down quite ill, I’m afraid.”

  Sybilla’s concern was immediate. “What is it?”

  The cook seemed relieved to focus her attention on her mistress. “I don’t right know, Madam. She began feeling poorly yesterday, and this morn when she reported to work, she had such ghastly black rings about her eyes, coughing and retching, I sent her back to her cottage right away.”

  Sybilla’s frown was sincere. “Was she fevered?”

  The cook nodded. “I believe so, milady. Gray as could be and wet as a rag.”

  Julian felt his own grimace. “It sounds like one of the lesser plagues to me. It’s gone round London lately. Terribly catching.” He met Sybilla’s eyes. “You’d do well to keep her from the castle and see if she improves.”

  “Has anyone else shown symptoms?” Sybilla asked the room at large.

  “None else here, milady,” the cook offered.

  The serving lad, Hobie, spoke. “One of the chamber maids was coughing a fit before the supper last eve. I’ve not yet seen her today.”