“Have a clerk sent up to me,” he said, lifting each of the small, domed lids as he spoke. “I’d draft a message to the king.” Chicken—no. Curds—God, no.
“Very well, my lord,” Argo said with a slight bow. “Is it of an urgent nature?”
“Aren’t all messages to the king of an urgent nature?” Oliver snapped as he lifted up the last domed lid. Oh ho, this looked promising. “Argo, what’s this here?”
The man leaned over and looked down his nose at the steaming pastry and then returned to his previous stance.
“Apple tart, I believe, my lord.”
“Perfect,” Oliver muttered, and dug into the treat with enthusiasm. He spoke around the food in his mouth. “What does Bellemont’s army number?”
Argo’s eyebrows rose again, as if in surprise. “Why, I would put us at near three hundred, my lord, including the squires.”
Oliver nodded, continued to chew.
“Are we to march on London?” Argo asked sarcastically, and Oliver knew the man was fishing for information.
“No, Westminster is safe,” Oliver said smoothly, reaching for the other thin slice of tart. “When Edward gives the word to march on Fallstowe, however, I want our men to lead the siege.” He stuck half of the pastry in his mouth.
Argo stood there, blinking. After several moments, he said, “My lord?”
“You heard me, Argo. Sybilla Foxe will get what is coming to her. I did not realize until I had spent time there myself and then come home to this room, to my brother’s lonely memories, what effect she had on his manhood.”
“Forgive me for saying so, my lord, but your brother was very much in love with the lady. He would have given his life for her, had she required it.”
“I am very much aware of that fact, Argo,” Oliver said snidely. “And it was obviously the only area in his entire life in which my brother displayed poor judgment. She discarded him once she’d had her sport, made a fool of him.”
Argo shook his head vehemently. “No. There was a reconciliation between them. Many letters—”
“What letters?” Oliver demanded, pounding his left fist on the tabletop. Then he stretched out the same arm to indicate the whole of the chamber. “You find them then, and you bring them to me! For I have searched every crevice seeking that which might lead me to believe that Sybilla Foxe is not the heartless witch she is rumored to be. To convince myself that my brother’s affections were not misplaced. I have found naught! She may as well have dealt him the death blow with her own hands!”
“He was going to her when he died. He loved her.”
“If his love was so pure, then why was he fucking Joan Barleg?” Oliver demanded.
Argo blanched, and Oliver knew then that Joan had spoken the truth.
The man composed his expression with great effort. “It was a solitary incident. If I may be so bold, Lady Joan preyed upon the lord when he was at his most vulnerable. I believe—I believe after the lord and Lady Sybilla had had a row.”
“Hmm. I see,” Oliver mused, leaning back in his chair.
“The lord was gravely regretful for it. He had hoped no one would ever find out.”
Oliver threw up a careless hand. “I could not care less whom Lady Joan chose to spread her legs for. I certainly had no claim to her, nor did I ever intend to have.”
“Lord August knew that you would not marry Lady Joan, my lord,” Argo said quietly.
Oliver shook his head and stood up. “Regardless, Sybilla Foxe must be held accountable for her actions. Fallstowe will fall, and I want nothing more than to be part of its toppling.”
“What of Lady Cecily, my lord?” Argo asked carefully.
Oliver stopped, his back to the steward. “What of her?”
“You would have her home laid siege to, as well? Is she not an innocent in all of this?”
“Fallstowe will soon no longer be Lady Cecily’s home. She is betrothed to a man from the north, and it is my understanding that they are to wed quickly.”
Now it was Argo’s turn to say, “I see.”
Oliver swung around. “I’m not at all certain I appreciate your tone, Argo.”
The steward only stared at him, and Oliver thought he saw something akin to sympathy in the red-haired man’s eyes.
“I apologize, my lord. I will send the clerk directly. Is there anything else?”
Oliver shook his head and turned away again. “No. That will be all for now.” He heard the chamber door slam and scrubbed his left hand over his face.
Oliver told himself that he did not care what Bellemont’s steward thought of his motivations. Oliver had been of little use to his brother while August was lord, true, but that didn’t mean Oliver had to go on in such a manner now that his brother was dead. If anything, aiding the king would honor the memory of the fine ruler August had been.
Oliver had experienced firsthand how manipulative Sybilla Foxe could be, how she had so easily led him into the machinations of her plan to subvert simple Joan Barleg, who was, if guilty of anything at all, too free with her affections and lacking in self-worth. Oliver had only been at Fallstowe one month—Sybilla had worked on August for years.
He walked to his brother’s wardrobe and opened the doors, perusing the clothes that hung there—that had hung there since the afternoon August had dressed before leaving Bellemont, never to return. Surely there was something here that would suffice.
What had been Sybilla’s ultimate goal? Oliver still could not fathom it. She had said that she thought Joan knew something, but—Joan? It wasn’t as if the woman had been privy to any of Bellemont’s secrets, if even August held any.
He was a better lover than you, as well.
Oliver paused, his hand gripping a long, silk sleeve. Well, yes, there was that. But even so, Oliver doubted August had imparted any great piece of information to the humble lady. Oliver flipped the sleeve aside and continued his search.
Many letters ...
“Many missing letters,” Oliver muttered crossly, and then paused again. Against his better judgment, Oliver let his mind dwell on those two pieces of information: Joan had slept with August, and there was correspondence between August and Sybilla that had gone missing, at least since the time of August’s death. He recalled Joan’s return to Fallstowe with Argo. Hadn’t the steward mentioned Joan invading this very chamber?
Could Joan have discovered the letters? And, if so, why would she steal something so trivial and personal, unless ...
“Unless ... unless ...” Oliver turned away from the wardrobe, leaving the door open, and sat down in his brother’s chair again.
Sybilla wanted very badly to know what Joan knew, and she had thought by convincing the woman that she was going to marry Oliver that somehow that information would be revealed. If August had in truth been Sybilla Foxe’s confidant and coconspirator against the king, perhaps the missing letters detailed some incriminating evidence against her that the Foxe matriarch wanted destroyed.
But Oliver still did not understand his part in the whole deception. What importance did he have to both women, besides being August’s brother, and now his heir?
A timid knock sounded at the door and Oliver started, feeling annoyed at the interruption. He wasn’t certain, but he thought that perhaps he had been on the verge of discovering how all of the seemingly jumbled pieces of unrelated information were joined together.
“What is it?” he barked.
The door opened, and one of Bellemont’s clerks stepped inside. “Argo said you wished to draft a letter to the king, milord?”
“Yes, Clerk.” Oliver’s brows drew downward, and his brain, still muddled from excess drink, worked with much effort.
“Milord?” the clerk asked.
Oliver stared at the clerk for so long the man turned red and began to fidget with his rolled up leather packet of quills and ink and parchments.
“Yes, I do wish to draft a letter, Clerk. A very urgent one.” Oliver stood and walked to the table tha
t still held the trays from his breakfast. He shoved them aside with ringing crashes, clearing a space for the timid man to work, then he slammed both palms on the bare wood.
Nothing made sense! But Oliver would not grant Sybilla Foxe further reprieve. And he told himself that this had nothing to do with spite. Nor jealousy. Nor revenge. Nor the idea that he wanted Fallstowe reduced to rubble because it was the place where he had lost his heart forever to a woman who very much resembled Sybilla Foxe.
Certainly, it had nothing at all to do with that.
Oliver looked up at the clerk. “How quickly can this message find its way into the king’s hands?”
Cecily had never known Sybilla to show any weakness of person, either mentally or physically, and therefore the sight of her strong, older sister unconscious on the floor stunned her so that she was unable to move.
Alys knelt over Sybilla’s still form, fanning her face with one hand and making little shrieking sounds. Then she turned her flushed face up to Cecily.
“Would you mind, Cee, since it’s you who’s killed her?”
Cecily bolted from the chair and went to her knees near Sybilla’s shoulders, pulling her sister’s head gently onto her own thigh.
“She’s not dead, she only fainted.”
“Why would she faint?” Alys demanded in a hysterical tone. “Sybilla never faints!”
“I suppose”—Cecily swallowed—“I suppose she is shocked.”
“No. No, I’m shocked. Sybilla is unconscious! Cecily, how could you?”
“I didn’t do it on purpose, Alys!” Cecily snapped. “How do you suppose I feel?” On her leg, Sybilla’s head stirred. “Sybilla? Sybilla, are you all right?”
Sybilla tried to lever herself up.
“Slowly now,” Cecily advised. “Slowly. You don’t want to go under again.”
Sybilla sat on her hip, one long arm braced to the side, her head lowered. She slowly turned her face toward Cecily.
“Are you in love with him?”
Alys’s head swiveled back and forth between the two sisters. “Who are you talking about? Oliver? Is Cecily in love with Oliver Bellecote? She is to marry the vicar! Of course she isn’t in love with Oliver!”
Cecily nodded. “Yes. I am in love with him.” She looked to Alys and winced at the innocent disbelief she saw there. “I’m sorry, Alys.”
Sybilla turned her face away again. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry. I’ve made a terrible mistake, Cecily.”
“I don’t understand, Sybilla—you didn’t know. How could you have made a mistake with any of it?”
Sybilla shook her head for a moment and then turned back to look at Cecily. “You’re to break it off with the vicar, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Of course.”
Alys piped up again, regaining some of her lost boldness. “Are you to marry Oliver Bellecote, then?”
“Well, I—that is a difficult question to answer at the moment,” Cecily said.
“He doesn’t even know,” Sybilla mused aloud, and then her lips thinned.
Cecily let her lack of denial be her answer.
“Cecily, you can’t not tell him!” Alys nearly shouted. “He’s your baby’s father! What will you do when you begin to grow and everyone in the land knows?”
“Not everyone in the land need know if she follows through with her original intention and goes on to Hallowshire,” Sybilla murmured.
Alys sucked in an outraged gasp when Cecily nodded.
“That was my plan. I made a grave mistake entrusting my heart to Oliver. He is a notorious scoundrel and a liar. How could I ever be certain that he would be faithful to me, to our family? I would always wonder about the next Joan Barleg, the next woman at some feast. Where he was, what he was doing. It is very possible that he would resent me. He may feel as though I trapped him into marrying me.”
“You’re scared,” Sybilla mused in an amazed tone. And then, quieter, “He’s in love with you, Cee.”
“I do doubt the capacity for that emotion exists in one such as him.”
Alys shot to her feet and pointed a finger at Cecily. “That is the worst, most hateful thing I believe I have ever heard come out of a woman’s mouth, and that is saying something as we both share a sister in Sybilla.”
“Thank you, Alys,” Sybilla quipped.
“You know what I am talking about, Sybilla,” Alys snapped, and then brought her wrathful gaze back to Cecily.
“She’s right, Cee,” Sybilla said. “Oliver must be told.”
“I already have a plan for it in mind,” Cecily said. She would not reveal the details of it just yet. “But I will not act until I am safely at Hallowshire.”
Sybilla seemed to be thinking very quickly. “Yes. There are things I must put to order first, any matter. Hallowshire is the best place for you right now in your condition.” Her face turned to Alys. “You and Piers should go, as well. As soon as possible.”
Alys glared at them both. “I can’t believe the pair of you! I will be more than happy to return home, straightaway. I want no part of such treachery.”
“I plan to leave at dawn tomorrow, with Father Perry,” Cecily offered, ignoring Alys’s dramatic proclamation.
“Yes, that should be soon enough. And I do doubt I need to tell you this, but I would not share your blessed news with any other save John Grey before you depart.”
Cecily cocked an eyebrow at her older sister. “I will do my best not to shout from the battlements that Saint Cecily is carrying the child of the land’s most notorious rake after a night at the Foxe Ring.”
“Fair enough.” Sybilla held out her hands. “Help me up, broodmares.”
“That was mean, Sybilla,” Alys chastised as she and Cecily pulled their sister to stand.
“Was it? Well, I’m certain I will have my comeuppance before the end of it all,” Sybilla assured them. She looked to Cecily. “Congratulations, Cee. Surely your and Alys’s children will be fast companions.”
Alys seemed to remember the root of all the angst as she looked down at Cecily’s midsection. Then she covered her face and began to cry.
Chapter 21
It was several hours before Cecily could bring herself to seek out John Grey. The confrontation with her sisters in Sybilla’s room that morning had taken its toll on Cecily, and she retreated to her own chamber to find some courage and give her stomach a chance to calm its roiling. Vomiting on the man while she broke off their betrothal would only add insult to injury.
And she thought again of her decision to take herself and her unborn child to the abbey before contacting Oliver. Was it truly the right thing to do? Was Alys’s outrage at Cecily keeping the pregnancy a secret for any length of time justified? Sybilla herself seemed to agree that the man needed to be told, but if Cecily was honest with herself, she knew the reason she would keep the secret was out of selfish fear.
She loved Oliver Bellecote. She loved him more deeply and more passionately than she could have ever imagined her heart capable. Even now, his absence from Fallstowe’s walls was palpable to her in the way one keeps lifting an empty chalice to their lips, thirsting and wishing for wine and only sensing in the last moment that the cup had been emptied.
She loved him. And she was fairly certain that, should he find out she carried his child, he would insist on marrying her. He would use every low trick to convince her to do so. But then Cecily would never know if his affections and loyalty to her were true. And when he strayed from her bed, as surely he would, how much more heartbroken would she be? Cecily closed her eyes against those painful imaginings.
She would send word for him to come to her at Hallowshire. If he did so, only for her, because he wanted her, perhaps there was hope for them. But if he ignored her message, if he had already forsaken the memory of her in favor of his next conquest ...
An abbey was no good place to raise a child, of course, but there was no reason why she should stay there after the baby was born. Cecily had already though
t that once the child was old enough to travel, she would demand Sybilla take a tiny portion of Fallstowe’s wealth and secure her and the baby a home abroad. In France, perhaps even Bordeaux, where there were likely still distant relatives to their mother. In France, there would be little chance of ever again laying eyes upon Oliver Bellecote.
Or John Grey.
Cecily paused in the stairwell leading to the great hall, her eyes easily finding the lone figure of the vicar sitting at one of the common tables, his back to her. His golden hair, shining and straight, was the brightest thing in the cavernous room. Like a beacon of light, drawing her to him. Cecily thought the analogy fitting. And she felt shame at sending that goodness away.
She took a deep breath and stepped off the bottom step and into the hall.
He turned his head at the small whispering sounds of her slippers on the stones, and immediately stood, his face lit with a smile so gentle that it crushed Cecily’s heart.
“I’d wondered if I would have need to send Graves to wake you before supper.”
She came to stand at the end of the long table, her fingers knotted together at her waist. “I’m sorry it took so long. I was ... I wasn’t feeling well.”
“You’re not ill again, are you?” His fine brow drew downward and he seemed to take stock of her appearance. “You do look a bit pale.”
“No. No, I’m not ill.” If only it were that simple! She indicated the spot on the bench next to him. “May I?”
“Please,” he said, reaching for her elbow and seeing her settled before taking his seat once more. “You are troubled by something, then, I know it. I do hope that you’re to share it with me now.”
Cecily swallowed, nodded. “Indeed.”
He reached for her hand, and although Cecily wanted to shirk away, pulling her hand out of his warm grasp, she did not. Instead, she looked down at their joined fingers and for a moment, wondered again at the wisdom of what she was about to do. Was she completely mad?
Yes, she said to herself. I am completely, madly in love with a man. And that man is not the one who sits at my side.
Never Seduce A Scoundrel Page 21