His tone was not particularly friendly. In fact, there was an underlying implication to his words that Gilbey did not like at all. He clenched his jaw to hold in his anger and merely said, “Stroke of fate, I suppose.”
By rescuing Lady Venetia, how many enemies had he made? Had his prompt action compromised her reputation? What else could he have done? Was he supposed to stand back and do nothing while they waited for one of her suitors to play the hero? The water was not dangerously deep, but he had seen right away that she had been in difficulties.
Gad, she had fit so perfectly in his arms. How beautiful she was when she had opened her eyes and stared up into his. Would the memory of those moments torment him forever? How much better for him if he had never touched her!
Up ahead he saw her bundled into the Duke of Roxley’s landau. Lady Vivian climbed in beside her, but not before she touched Nicholas on the shoulder and pointed back toward Gilbey. As the carriage set off, Nicholas trotted back to join him.
“Bit cold for swimming, old man?” he said with a huge, lopsided grin. “Remind me to thank you properly when we’ve gotten you warmed and dried. You look like something the dog dragged in. What the devil happened, anyway?”
How to answer? Nicholas would likely be insulted on his sister’s behalf if Gilbey explained things just the way he saw them. On the other hand, Gilbey was getting very tired of being perfectly polite to everyone, especially when so many of the people around him did not seem to play by the same rules.
“It seems your sister likes to play games,” he said in a clipped tone, choosing his words carefully. “She had some idea of tossing her hat into the river to see who would retrieve it, but she accidentally threw in more than she intended.”
Nicholas laughed, not just a cursory chuckle but a heartfelt belly laugh that lasted at least a full minute. He clapped an arm across Gilbey’s wet shoulders and steered him toward a carriage, signaling to the coachman at the same time. He was still laughing as they climbed in.
“You find that humorous?” Gilbey said stiffly.
Nicholas wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I know Venetia, and I know you, my friend. I think I am able to fill in all the blanks you have left in the story. I only wish you knew each other as well as I do! Of course, I can go to Vivian for a full accounting.” He lapsed back into laughter which Gilbey could not share.
Gilbey stared out the carriage window. He saw nothing funny about the situation. He was in danger of falling in love with a woman he was not sure he even liked or approved of. But the woman was not even the worst part! Falling in love at all was unthinkable—utterly ruinous, a disaster of major proportions. He was not a man who could afford to love. Thank God Venetia could never be his. If only he could get her out of his mind. From there it was only a short way to his heart.
***
The remaining guests returned to Rivington from the picnic in small bunches, drifting in almost randomly as they saw fit. The St. Aldwyn carriages made several trips to the picnic site and back, for it seemed that no one felt moved to walk back. As there was no further entertainment planned until dinner, the guests filled the time by wandering through the picture rooms and galleries of Rivington, writing letters in the salons, or wandering in the gardens.
Venetia had chosen to remain in her room, for although she was quite recovered from her dip in the river, she was not in the best of moods. To Vivian, this was an ideal opportunity to slip off and attend to a matter that she knew her sister would disapprove.
Assuming that Lord Cranford was also fully recovered from his unintended bath, where would he spend the hours until dinner? Vivian suspected the library was the most likely place, for his interest in old architecture and his predilection for books would both lead him there.
The library occupied the original hall of the old manor house that formed part of the north wing of Rivington. With its great vaulted ceiling of wooden beams, the room was one of her own favorites. Many times she had curled up in a chair there, imagining the medieval lord of the manor dining with his family and guests on the dais at the far end of the room, proudly showing off the great oriel window he had installed there. His massive carved fireplace with its heraldic motifs seemed to fit comfortably among the much newer wall cases filled with books.
Vivian did not see Lord Cranford in the library when she arrived there, but neither had she seen him in any of the other rooms she had passed through on her way there. Had she guessed wrong? What if he and Nicholas had devised some other amusement for themselves? She decided to settle in the alcove of the oriel window to continue with one of Miss Austen’s novels and wait for a bit.
Anne Elliot had just come to realize her error in sacrificing her romance with Captain Wentworth when Vivian heard voices and looked up to see Lady Norbridge and Lord Munslow enter from the screen passage. She was surprised to see them—they seemed to her the most unlikely among the guests to be interested in books. They looked equally surprised to see her.
“Why, Lady Venetia, we did not expect—we did not mean to disturb you,” Lady Norbridge faltered. Her heavy scent of lilac clashed with the room’s musty scent of old leather. “I hope you are quite recovered . . .?”
“I am Lady Vivian, and it is quite all right. We are happy to have our guests make use of the library.”
Lord Munslow cleared his throat. “No, no, wouldn’t think of disturbing you. Didn’t think there’d be anyone here.” He paused as if uncertain what to do or say next.
Finally it dawned on Vivian that they might have come seeking privacy rather than books. Well, they would have to go elsewhere if they wanted a private tête-à-tête. She had gotten there first and she was not about to relinquish her post. At least she was reading. She lifted her chin and smiled at them sweetly.
Lady Norbridge appeared to have recovered her composure. “I do beg your pardon. It is so difficult to tell you apart. How does your sister do now, Lady Vivian? We were all quite concerned over her mishap.”
Ah, polite conversation. Of course they couldn’t just leave. “She says it was nothing. She is fine now, thank you.” Vivian wondered if she should suggest that they try the solarium upstairs, but she realized they would likely be shocked at her forwardness. Shouldn’t she be the one who was shocked? They seemed to have gotten this backward.
Just as she came to the conclusion that at least Lord Munslow could be removed from the list of interested suitors, Lord Cranford appeared in the arched passage doorway.
“This seems to be a popular spot. Am I intruding?”
Lady Norbridge replied before Vivian could say a word. “Ah, Lord Cranford, the hero of the day. Not at all—do join us.” With a rather exaggerated swaying of her hips and provocative swishing of her soft green silk skirt, the older woman went to him and put her hand on his arm. “Lord Munslow and I were just leaving, but I have something that belongs to you. I would like very much to return it—sometime.”
Lord Cranford looked as if he did not know what to say, and Vivian could not blame him. Now she was shocked. The invitation in Lady Norbridge’s tone was quite blatant.
When Lord Munslow and the countess had left the room, Lord Cranford turned to Vivian. “The worst thing is, I cannot even call to mind anything of mine that she might have.”
Vivian could not find a reply. She had wanted to speak with him. Her hunch about the library had proven right, and her opportunity was at hand. But what had seemed so easy in her mind was not so easy to carry out. Finally she blurted, “I hope you suffered no ill effects from the river? We owe you many thanks.”
“No thanks are due. It was but a moment’s work, and I am perfectly fine.” With an odd expression on his face he added. “An early season swim is hardly the worst thing that could happen.”
He began to stroll casually about the room, looking around him. “This makes a magnificent library. What a splendid i
dea to install it in here.”
She swallowed and nodded. “Yes, I have always loved it.” She wanted to talk to him about Venetia. But how was she to bring up the subject? She felt very stupid.
“I’m sorry, Lady Vivian,” he said, “I can see I have interrupted your reading. I shall be quiet and let you get back to it.”
No! That was the last thing she wanted. “’Tis only Persuasion, a novel that came out this past year. Really, I do not mind.”
“May I ask how your sister is faring now after her ordeal?”
Yes, oh yes. That was better. “She is fine now, thanks to you. I am certain she will wish to thank you herself.”
“As I said, no thanks are necessary. I was simply the nearest. Anyone would have done the same.”
They might not be so modest about it. That was another thing she liked about him, beside the fact that he never had difficulty distinguishing between her and her sister. She really did not believe he could be the blackmailer.
“About this afternoon—there was one thing . . .” Oh, why was this so hard to do?
“I know. You have every right to upbraid me. I owe you an apology for this afternoon. I was unspeakably rude.”
“Oh, no. I mean, that isn’t it at all . . .” She set her book down and stood up. Perhaps she would do a better job if she walked around the way Venetia would have.
“The thing is, of course, you do not know my sister very well. If you did, you would see her actions in a very different light. I cannot blame you for protesting her behavior towards our guests; I am sure it must seem both callous and—and somewhat capricious. But she is not like that at all. Perhaps her idea about the hat was ill-advised—certainly it turned out to be so, did it not?”
She had circled away from where he was standing and now she turned back to face him. “Truly, she is sweet and generous, quite different from what people think. If only you could understand . . .”
But of course, how could he, when she could not tell him the whole truth? “Venetia does not do such things for amusement. How else are we to know which man would make a good husband? It is not merely our own happiness and future at stake, but a matter of the family fortune and lineage as well . . .”
“Do you not trust your father’s judgment?”
Ah, now how was she to answer that? Naturally a man would see it in such simple terms. But she could not expose her father’s failings any more than she could reveal her own affliction. What would Venetia say? She was so much better with words.
“Our father has allowed us a certain measure of choice. We take these steps precisely for that reason. There are many men who would, uh, take advantage of our situation. Venetia is only trying to make certain that we know what we are getting. She means no harm by it.”
“I see,” said Lord Cranford.
Vivian could not tell if he understood even slightly. At least she had tried. So much of Venetia’s behavior was for her sake, she could not bear to have him think ill of her twin.
The viscount came up to her and took her right hand. “I think you are the one who is sweet and generous to attempt to defend your sister. I will try to remember what you’ve said. I only hope you two are not looking for perfection to match your own, for you will never find it.” He raised her hand and kissed it.
Vivian sighed. “You are very kind.” And so handsome, too. If only he were eligible! He would make a fine husband for anyone. Well, anyone except for her. Any man who was patient, kind, and understanding enough to live with her infirmity should be spared from such a fate. Marriage was not the right future for her, no matter what her father or even Venetia believed. If only she knew how to convince them.
Chapter Seven
Venetia slept badly that night and was still out of sorts when she awoke the following morning. Breakfast in her room and the prospect of the day’s planned activities did nothing to improve her state of mind. Later, as she surveyed the simple blue walking dress her maid had laid out for her to wear to the morning’s archery competition, she wished she could spend the entire day alone.
Her bad mood had everything to do with the Viscount Cranford and very little to do with her own folly, at least in her own view. If Cranford had not happened along when he did, she thought, she most certainly would not have slipped when she threw her hat into the river, and she would not have needed rescuing. Perhaps Colonel Hatherwick would still have fished the hat out with his fishing pole, but perhaps not. If one of the other gentlemen had gone into the river after it, it would never have floated downstream to where the colonel was indulging his passion. She and Vivian might still have learned something of value about their suitors.
What made it so much worse was the indignity of having fallen in. What a foolish predicament to have gotten into! She felt grateful to Lord Cranford for rescuing her, and at the same time she resented him.
The fact was, she could not put the rescue out of her mind. The image of Lord Cranford’s striking eyes and the vivid sensation of his strong arms wrapped around her invaded all her thoughts. Her inability to banish them was ridiculous!
She had actually caught herself thinking that if he was indeed the blackmailer, perhaps marriage to him would not be so terrible. A harebrained notion! Only a heartless, unscrupulous blackguard would resort to such a tactic as blackmail. The man had to be morally bankrupt, not to mention avaricious and cruel! The fact that she considered such a marriage for even a moment proved how thoroughly Lord Cranford had confused her. She was sorry to think that Nicholas was such a poor judge of friends, but who else could be the villain? Lord Cranford was the only stranger among them. All the other guests had been handpicked by her father and Aunt Alice and were well-known among the haut ton.
A light rap on her door brought her back to the present. Vivian entered, her face showing a perfect mixture of surprise, concern, and reproval.
“Netia! You are not even dressed. Aunt Alice is already gathering everyone. Are you feeling unwell? I hardly knew what to think when you did not wish any company for breakfast.”
How can I explain? Venetia thought. She had never held anything back from her twin before now, but Vivian did not share her suspicions about Lord Cranford. Vivian had not felt the viscount’s arms around her, or looked up into those eyes at a moment when time seemed to stand still. How could Vivi possibly understand the confusion that was tormenting her?
“Where is Millie? Did you send her out? Shall I help you to dress instead?” Vivian asked. “I guess I had better. You are standing there as if you have forgotten how to move.”
Venetia sighed. Not sharing her trouble with her sister made her feel even worse. “I wish we could swap places, Vivi. You could be me and I could suffer an attack of ‘delicate nerves,’ as father calls it, and stay in my room all day.”
Of course she didn’t mean it. She said it unthinkingly, more to herself than to her sister, but Vivian looked stricken. “Oh, Netia. What a terrible thing to wish for! Anyway, I wouldn’t dare to take your place. What if I had a seizure?”
Venetia rushed across to hug her sister, her own frustrations swept aside. “I wasn’t serious, Vivi! You know I’ll always stand by you. If I could wish for anything, it would be that you could be cured. Or that the accident never happened, so we could have Mama back, too.”
If she was utterly, ruthlessly honest, Venetia had to admit that a tiny spark of envy did lurk somewhere in her dark side—a horrible, unattractive reality. Just occasionally she did wish she could have an excuse to get away from everything the way Vivian could when she suffered a seizure. Venetia had cast herself in the role of caretaker, but sometimes she grew weary of the part—indeed, sometimes she felt as though the weight of it might actually break her. When she was tempted to throw off that mantle, she would think of the burden that Vivian carried and knew that her own would never be so heavy.
“H
ere, do help me to dress,” she said to break the awkward moment. “I don’t know what is the matter with me this morning. This gown is a good choice for today, is it not? Just the right color—blue for ‘blue-deviled.’ Perhaps I am just discouraged that we have made so little progress in our investigations. We are no closer to discovering either our poet or our blackmailer than when we started.”
Vivian gathered up the walking dress and held it up at arm’s length. “Is that what was bothering you last night? You were very quiet again at dinner, and you were paying very little attention while we played charades and anagrams. Why, Netia, you did not even thank Lord Cranford for rescuing you from the river—I noticed that you did not go near him once all evening. ’Tis not like you to be so thoughtless.”
Was Vivian testing for a reaction? Did she suspect something? She was fishing very near the truth. “Did I not thank him?” Venetia said innocently, tying the ribbon closure of her chemisette and straightening the ruff at her neck. “Oh dear. I must make certain to do that—I never meant to slight him. Did he seem offended?”
“No,” Vivian answered thoughtfully. “He seemed preoccupied, although I’d say he seemed content to stay away from you.”
Venetia only paused for half a heartbeat. “Perhaps he was afraid I would need to be rescued again. Seriously, perhaps he is afraid to get close for fear we’ll discover he is the blackmailer. I wish we knew how to find out for certain. If only the servants had known something, or the note had yielded some usable clue. I wish we could discover something—anything.” She held out her arms to receive the dress.
“I wish that you would discover Lord Cranford is not the blackmailer, so we could begin to look for someone else.”
What Venetia really longed for at that moment was for Lord Cranford and the rest of the guests as well to disappear out of Rivington and her life altogether. She knew the chance of that, however. “If only we had some magic wishes,” she said. “I’d give anything for these two weeks to be over, or better yet, to have never begun.”
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