***
Venetia’s was not the only bad mood to be found in Rivington that morning. Gilbey, too, had spent a tormented evening and a restless night. He was certain that if even a hint of how he was feeling showed on his face, no one would dare to come near him or speak to him. He got through breakfast civilly, but now as he joined the other guests for the archery tournament, he wondered if putting a weapon into his hands would be wise. Suppose he just happened to mistake Lord Wistowe for one of the targets?
He had to admire the arrangements for the competition, despite his black mood. The range had been set up on a south-facing lawn at the far end of the walled garden, with targets at measured intervals at the bottom of the slope. Instead of the standard round targets, the figures of medieval knights in armor had been painted on canvas and attached to hay bales. Gilbey liked that—it suited his state of mind perfectly. If he wished he could even attach names to the figures; he would likely name one as Nicholas, who deserved a few shots for bringing him to Rivington in the first place. At the top of the slope a gaily striped canopy offered shade for the ladies, and bright pennants on poles fluttered in the breeze.
“Care to make a wager? Highest score, lowest score, most lost arrows, whatever you wish.” Lord Munslow’s voice penetrated Gilbey’s thoughts.
Gilbey turned around and saw Lord Chesdale gesturing at the other earl with his quizzing glass in hand. “Five pounds says you’ll lose your money no matter what you wager.” That could be nearly half a year’s pay for one of their servants, Gilbey reflected. Behind the two earls several other guests laughed.
Gilbey stepped away before they could try to include him in their wagering. Not to join in would be considered unsporting, but he hated to squander his resources. An altogether different danger was that Lady Norbridge might notice him standing alone, a fate he wished to avoid. Finding Nicholas seemed like a good idea until he saw him standing by the rack of bows waiting for the archers, with Lady Elizabeth close beside him.
“Are you skilled at archery, Lord Cranford?” Lady Caroline Sainsberry, the daughter of the Earl and Countess of Upcott, had quietly come up behind him. Gilbey rather liked Lady Caroline—although she looked fragile with her curly blond hair and porcelain skin, her conversation focused primarily on horses and sport. She was not loud and did not put on airs like the twins’ cousin Adela.
“I’m afraid not,” he said, feeling rather guilty at the lie. He had won his college archery cup for two years in a row, but he was determined to excel at mediocrity on this day. There would be no accidents, no dramatic rescues, nothing to draw attention or rile the legitimate suitors.
“A pity,” said the young woman. “It would be so lovely to see someone best that gaggle of popinjays.” She inclined her head toward the wagering gentlemen. “I thought you might be just the one to do it.” Forced to reconsider, she surveyed the other guests. “Hm, perhaps Lord Newcroft. He acquitted himself rather well in the games yesterday . . .”
She wandered away, leaving Gilbey a clear view of the twins as they arrived. They stopped for a moment, framed by the green archway of clipped yews that opened onto the lawn. One sister was clad in blue and the other in a deep rose color, but Gilbey had to think and observe them for an instant before he could tell which twin was which. Then he smiled.
Venetia was in blue. He could tell by the elegant way she stood, and by the way she held her head. Vivian tended to keep her hands behind her back and spent a good deal more of her time looking at the ground than her sister. Venetia could be counted upon to toss her head every so often in a way that reminded him of a spirited mare. He almost laughed when she did so just at the moment he thought of it.
Then there was something new, he had realized. Venetia preferred hats. Not for her the demurely closed bonnets that Vivian favored. The one she had thrown into the river yesterday had been a simple confection of cork and silver gray crepe, and this one, though narrower in the brim, was trimmed primarily with blue ribbons to match her dress. No foolish fantasies of flowers, fruit, or feathers for her. There was a single large feather, but it curled around the side of the crown quite sensibly, instead of sticking up like a weather vane ready to catch the slightest breeze. He suddenly realized that he was smiling in approval, and turned away.
What was he doing? Was this the way to get Lady Venetia off his mind? He didn’t want to admire her, like her, or be around her—he didn’t even want to see her. And that is as much a lie as what you told Lady Caroline, said a little voice in his head.
The call went up for the archers to prepare to shoot. Gilbey, his black mood restored, went over and snatched up arrows and a bow at random. Nicholas had gotten him into this coil, but he had only himself to blame for agreeing to help. If only he hadn’t! He would not now feel honorbound to stay. How much simpler just to leave! From what he had seen so far, there was no lack of supervision over the young ladies. Nicholas seemed so taken up by Lady Elizabeth he did not appear to be in any way concerned.
The archers took their places along a line marked in the grass and listened while the Duke of Roxley’s gamekeeper gave them instructions. Gilbey was intrigued in spite of himself. They were to shoot at each of the targets in succession, beginning with the farthest one, as if an enemy were advancing upon them. They would have six seconds to shoot at each target.
How does one defeat an enemy who is advancing from within? Gilbey thought as he nocked his first arrow and positioned himself to shoot. A powerful force was at work in him, and he did not know how to stop it. His heart and mind refused to follow the course he had set for his life—to avoid the mistake his father had made.
Gilbey closed one eye and sighted along the shaft of his arrow, waiting for the command to begin. He had always liked the pressure of timed shooting—it added an element of excitement to an activity that sometimes seemed closer to science than sport.
When the command came, he reacted reflexively. In that initial instant, nothing existed but the bow, the arrow, the target, and himself. Inside his head a clock began to tick off the six seconds. With the smooth ease of long practice, he pulled and released.
“By Jove, you’ve nailed the fellow right through the heart,” Lord Amberton exclaimed.
Most of the first shower of arrows had missed widely.
“Who do you think you are, Cupid?”
More like that mythical cherub’s victim, Gilbey reflected as he prepared his next shot. Surely he was the one who had taken a direct hit to the heart. The love arrow’s poison was spreading through his system even as he stood there trying not to think of Venetia watching him. He released again, and this time his arrow had no difficulty in missing the target altogether.
***
The competition continued until nearly noon, lasting through several rounds of standard target shooting, distance shooting, and even a novelty round using apples for targets. Gilbey shot erratically, as if his arrows followed the ebb and flow of his turbulent emotions. That suited his purposes, however, and he was in good company.
“The only thing I hit all morning was the topiary peacock just over the wall,” Lord Marchthorpe observed.
“Should have tried for one of the live ones,” said Lord Munslow. “Then at least you would’ve contributed some meat to the dinner table.”
“Fowl shot by foul shot, eh?” quipped someone.
“The birds were certainly at more risk from us than the targets,” Lord Whitgreave commented. “Given the skill we have exhibited this morning, it is a miracle the ladies were safe while watching from behind us!”
As the group dispersed and began to mingle with the miraculously spared ladies, the Marquess of Ashurst approached Gilbey.
“You have excellent form, Lord Cranford,” he said, a hint of puzzlement in his voice. “You are obviously not a novice. I was surprised that your aim seemed so frequently to be off.”
Gi
lbey liked the marquess. He hated lying to him, but what other choice did he have? “Yes, well, uh, I suppose if I practiced regularly, I might learn to fix that.” At least he could be truthful about Ashurst’s skill. “You shot splendidly—I expect you’ll win the prize for highest overall score.”
“Hm, yes, so I suppose. Archery is a fine sport for a hermit like me—one can compete against oneself, and no other players are required. I enjoy it.”
Gilbey usually enjoyed it, too. He might have enjoyed the competition if he could have put the entire St. Aldwyn family out of his mind and shot with honest skill.
The Duke of Brancaster came to them, smiling. “Lord Ashurst, you have easily won the prize for the highest score. You appear to be the only archer among us.”
“What is my prize?”
“You shall escort whichever of the Duke of Roxley’s daughters you choose for the rest of the day.”
Ashurst looked dumbfounded.
The duke turned to Gilbey, his smile wavering so slightly Gilbey was not certain if he imagined it.
“Quite astonishingly, Lord Cranford, it seems you, too, have won a prize.”
Gilbey’s heart sank. How was this possible? He had tried so hard.
“It has been determined that you scored the only perfect bull’s-eye of the day. It was your very first shot.”
Fate was playing with him, there was no question about it. “That was only pure luck,” he muttered, although he knew full well it wasn’t true.
Lord Ashurst clapped him on the shoulder. “And what is his prize?” he asked the duke.
“He is to escort whichever twin you do not choose. Congratulations, gentlemen.”
The two younger men stared at each other as the Duke of Brancaster walked away. Then Lord Ashurst chuckled. “This is a fine turn of events. I cannot think of two less likely candidates, can you?” After a thoughtful pause he asked, “Have you any preference as to which of the twins I should choose, Lord Cranford?”
Gilbey was quite certain that Ashurst had a preference of his own, and that it was not Venetia. “No, no, you should choose as you see fit. You earned your prize and should enjoy it. My congratulations. I think I must see what can be done about my own situation, however. I did not come here to court Edmonton’s sisters. Someone else most assuredly should have the advantage of my prize.”
So saying, he moved off in search of Nicholas, leaving a puzzled Lord Ashurst staring after him.
Nicholas was easy to find. He came up to Gilbey moments later in a state of agitation. “My father has done it again,” he said, glancing about.
There was no one within earshot. “What?” Gilbey asked.
“He never told my sisters that their charming company was to be the prize for the competition. Venetia is in a state.”
“I can understand that,” Gilbey said wryly. “I wanted to speak to you about that, actually . . .”
Nicholas hurried on. “I don’t really understand why she is so upset, except that she likes to be consulted. It seems to me that you and Lord Ashurst are perfectly acceptable escorts. As far as I am concerned, in fact, it works out quite well—what better way for you to keep an eye on them for me?
“Congratulations, by the way. What the devil was wrong with your aim? I couldn’t believe that you did not win for the highest score. Ashurst was good, but you should have beaten him easily. Instead you won the prize for best shot with the only good one you fired all morning. Is this the man who earned the school’s archery cup two years running?”
“Shhh, Nicholas! All I need is for someone to hear you.” Gilbey would have liked to have a bow in his hand right then. He would have used it to knock sense into his friend. “Did it ever occur to you that the other gentlemen might not appreciate having to compete with a champion? Or that they might even now resent losing the opportunity to be with your sisters that I have stolen away from them with this prize? I want you to fix this, Nicholas. You can say there was a mistake, and award the prize to someone else.”
“How can I do that? No one else had as good a shot, other than Ashurst, and he can’t claim both prizes.”
“Think up some other prize, then.”
“One might think my sisters were two-headed gorgons, you are so eager to stay out of their company, old man.”
***
Venetia sucked in her breath as if she had been hit in the stomach. She had not meant to eavesdrop on her brother and Lord Cranford—she had walked over to them in good faith, intent on discussing the problem of her father’s Machiavellian choice of prizes. They had failed to notice her and now she retreated hastily.
Vivian looked up expectantly as Venetia approached. “So, did you finally thank Lord Cranford for rescuing you yesterday?”
Venetia shook her head silently. Grabbing her sister by the hand, she pulled her along as she ducked through the evergreen arch and hurried up the path. She sought refuge in the garden they called the sundial court.
“Netia! Whatever is the matter? Gracious, you whisked me away in the middle of a conversation with Lady Marchthorpe.”
“That woman? She might as well be a match for Father, the way she’s plotting with Elizabeth to get their hooks into Nicholas. Right now I wouldn’t care if they succeeded.”
She led Vivian to a stone bench in the center of the garden and sat down. The delicious scent of the wallflowers growing against it failed to soothe her.
“You are upset with Father, I know,” Vivian said. “He should have told us beforehand, I agree, but—”
“Vivi, listen. I overheard Nicholas and Lord Cranford talking. Cranford is a champion archer. He did not want to win the prize—he purposely contrived his poor marksmanship on the archery range.”
“Why would he do that? No one knew ahead of time what the prizes were to be, did they?”
“The very idea of being in our company was so hateful to him, he went to Nicholas and asked him to reaward the prize to someone else!”
“Well, that is certainly not very flattering.”
Venetia felt the pressure of her churning emotions building up to tears, making her chest tight and creating a huge lump in her throat. She had never felt so confused in her life. She had no wish to be with Lord Cranford, yet his rejection hurt like the very devil. She was convinced his dishonesty about his archery skills was just what one might expect from a blackmailer. And why would he have any interest in being in their company? It meant only an extra risk of premature discovery for him. She and her sister were nothing more than a means to an end for him—he cared only for their money.
Sometimes her sister could be hopelessly blind. “Don’t you see how it is? He did not need to know the prize to wish to avoid winning. A blackmailer would want to keep attention away from himself. He would not care about any little prize he might win during the party—he is focused entirely on winning the grand prize at the end.”
“Netia, you are determined to cast the worst possible light on everything he does. Suppose he did not wish to attract attention simply because he is modest? Perhaps he felt it was not fair to the other gentlemen if his skill was so far above theirs. You know, not every man is as insensitive as Father. Someday you will have to trust one.”
“You make Lord Cranford seem such a paragon. Well, he is certainly not the man I will choose to trust. He is altogether too polite, too proper, and too utterly conventional to be true. You’ll see. This business about the archery only proves that he is not honest.”
“I think he is quite attractive,” countered Vivian. Her gentle smile softened the note of reproval in her voice.
“Fine. Let us only hope that Lord Ashurst chooses to spend the afternoon with me. That way you may enjoy the questionable pleasure of Lord Cranford’s company.”
Chapter Eight
The afternoon arrived all too soon.
>
“Are you certain you will be all right?” Venetia looked at her sister with concern as she positioned her hat on her carefully arranged hair and tied the lavender ribbons under her chin.
They were preparing for the afternoon’s outing, a visit to Sandler’s Hill, an ancient chambered long barrow a few miles from Rivington. Normally Venetia would have enjoyed such an excursion, but she was dreading the coming hours to be spent in Lord Cranford’s company. However, her concern for her sister overshadowed all else.
“If you were to choose an activity to pass, this would be a good one,” she continued. “You have not spent much time resting, Vivi, and remember the climb up the hill is not an easy one.”
“I had no trouble yesterday. Anyway, my afternoon has been promised to Lord Ashurst. How can I not go?”
“That was Father’s doing and can be undone. You could promise Lord Ashurst that he may escort you tomorrow instead.”
Vivian picked up a pair of lilac-colored gloves that exactly matched the shade of both her dress and Venetia’s. “No, it is too late to cry off. We are all ready now! And besides, I want to go.”
The expression on Vivian’s face was quite earnest, and Venetia knew she had best let the subject drop. She smiled. Looking at her sister was often like viewing her own reflection in a looking glass. She did not know how she would have managed to go on if her beloved twin had died in the accident that had claimed their mother’s life. At this moment they were more alike than ever, for they had decided to dress identically to spite their father and their aunt.
Aunt Alice was the one who had insisted they change clothes, “to show your advantage in having a vast collection to choose from.” Aunt Alice deplored the confusion that was inevitable when the twins dressed alike, so they had promptly selected a pair of matching lilac carriage dresses trimmed with white satin and ribbon in a deeper shade of lavender. Since their father had seen to it that the archery prize winners had to choose between the twins, it occurred to them that his plan could be thwarted neatly by this same bit of mischief.
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