Horatia came to claim her husband. She gave Strathairn a shrewd glance before they strolled away. Guy would need the angels on his side to convince her to return to the country without him.
Strathairn’s plan to avoid Sibella had failed, for she stood before him. He tensed and caught his breath. She was very beautiful tonight. The fine material of her dress clung to her curves, making him dwell on what lay beneath.
“My lord.” Sibella curtsied. “How agreeable to find you back in society.” She fluttered her painted fan in a manner that emphasized her eyes. He drew his gaze away from her tempting mouth.
“Lady Sibella.”
She smiled coquettishly and tapped him on the arm with her fan. “So many ladies here tonight will be glad you have come.”
“Most focus on Viscount Montsimon,” he said with a grin, taken aback by her flirtatiousness which was out of character.
“We had hoped you would call on us at Brandreth Court.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Not your mother surely?”
“Mama enjoys good company as much as I.”
“Lord Coombe’s company, perhaps?”
“Yes, he has been attentive of late.” She frowned at him and nibbled her bottom lip, something he wished to do to her himself. “Don’t you want to talk to me?”
He caught a thunderous expression on Chaloner’s face where he stood within a small group and sighed. “Of course, but your brother seems to seek your attention.”
Sibella arched her slender eyebrows. “One might suspect you are avoiding me.”
“Not at all. How well you look. Your few days in the country have brought color to your cheeks.”
“Thank you, but my health is a poor topic for conversation.”
“Then shall we change it? Are you not on the verge of announcing your engagement to Lord Coombe?”
“I never expected you to listen to the gossipmongers.”
“Is your brother Edward a gossip?”
The music swelled to a deafening crescendo. The prince liked music to dominate a room. Sibella narrowed her eyes. “Might we go somewhere where we can talk without raising our voices?”
“Would that please your brother?”
“I don’t care what Chaloner thinks or does. I am a grown woman with a mind of my own.”
“You’ll get no argument from me,” he said.
He’d never seen Sibella like this. Her vivacious beauty made his pulse race. How her mother was known to be in her youth, perhaps. He fought the strong pull of attraction, the desire to take her in his arms, to whisk her away. To thumb their noses at society and be damned. But a dangerous man dogged him, and he would never risk Sibella. She was far too precious. Wives could be held to ransom. They would weaken a man. He would not break her heart nor leave her a widow. He glanced casually around the room. “Where is the elegant Lord Coombe?”
She nodded toward the far corner. “In conversation with Lord Southern.”
“Ah, I see.” He must stop this now. “I’m afraid I must leave you, the Regent—”
“Is it because of what happened in York, John? Are you in danger?” Her wide green eyes, made greener by the large aquamarine decorating her deep décolletage, assessed him, making him feel like glass.
Her use of his first name here was reckless. Afraid for her reputation, and aware that merely conversing with him in this manner could shatter her life and remove her from all she held dear, he took her arm and led her to a quiet spot behind a pillar. Fortunately, most of the guests had ventured into an anteroom to partake of the lobster patties, thinly sliced ham, and exotic foods they’d come to expect from the prince’s table.
He gazed down at her imploringly. “Sibella, have a care…”
“Are you in danger?” she asked again.
“You must not concern yourself with me.” He was caught by the emotion behind her words. She deserved an explanation if only he was able to give it. He braced himself and lowered his voice. “You will please not repeat any of what your brother told you. Not to anyone, do you understand?”
“Do you really believe I would?” A high color flooded her delicate cheekbones.
He struggled with his feelings, suddenly helpless. His breath exploded out of his lungs. “Not even to Coombe, Sibella.”
The fervor in her eyes faded, and they became shadowed, inaccessible to him. Desperate to reach out to her, he put out his hand. Over her head, he spied her brother Chaloner still watching, and fell silent.
He couldn’t go after her without causing a scene. Frustrated and angry at the clumsy way he’d handled her, he watched as she turned and was swallowed up by the throng gathered around the prime minister. Jealousy tightened his belly. Coombe had better measure up.
*
Sibella fumbled for her handkerchief as she hurried to the ladies’ retiring room. Tears blinded her. She was hopeless at acting the femme fatale. What a cake she’d made of herself. Edward had been wrong about Strathairn’s susceptibility. He appeared as unmoved as a marble statue. Under that smoky blue gaze, the idea of flirting with him had become embarrassing. Questioning him about his work was stupid. As if he’d tell her. She should feel ashamed of wearing her heart on her sleeve. She didn’t, because she feared for him, although it had been humiliating.
She should have taken him at his word. His work meant too much to him. She gasped. Somehow, she must draw strength from somewhere to forget him. She’d been distracted by a man she would never have and was blinded to the possibilities of happiness with another man. Was it Coombe?
She blundered into a strong body. Edward.
“Whatever is the matter?” With a concerned expression, Edward stopped her from passing, his hand on her arm.
“I have something in my eye.”
“Let me see.” He bent his knees to peer into her eyes. “Both of them?”
“I suspect it’s those urns of delphiniums. They always affect me this way.”
“It wasn’t the conversation you just had with Strathairn behind the pillar?”
She glowered at him. “I declare you have nothing better to do than watch me, Edward.”
Edward tapped her lightly on the back. “That’s better—the old Sibella, showing some spirit.”
“You may tell Chaloner I have decided to marry Lord Coombe.”
“You have?” Edward gave a slow disbelieving shake of his head. “Are you sure, Sib? It’s not a rash decision? Made on the rebound as it were?”
Sibella dabbed at her eyes. “Made with a good deal of common sense I would have thought.”
“Perhaps you need more time. Sleep on it. You may think differently tomorrow.”
“I thought you wanted me to marry him,” she said in an angry tone.
“I want to see you happily married. Not necessarily the same thing.”
Sibella shook her head. “Tell Chaloner, please Edward.”
She sniffed. How tired she was of vetting possible husbands. But she did want her own home and a nursery full of children. The years were passing her by. She sagged with a sudden fatigue. Now that she’d made up her mind, it offered her little comfort, and she doubted she would sleep tonight.
Out of a corner of her eye, the dependable Lord Coombe approached.
*
While Strathairn tried to convince himself Sibella would be happy with Coombe, Montsimon appeared at his side. “We are expected in Parnham’s office tomorrow at eleven,” he said in his pleasant Irish tenor voice.
“You bring news from Paris?”
Montsimon inclined his head toward a deserted alcove where they wouldn’t be overheard. Strathairn followed him. Blessed with considerable charm, Montsimon hid a serious, thoughtful personality. His mother–an Irish beauty–ran away to Europe with her husband’s best friend when he was a child and left him with his father. Perhaps it resonated with John because at ten years old, he’d become a motherless lad after his mother passed away.
The viscount was forced to pause several times when ladies
drew his attention. To his credit, Strathairn had never heard him boast of his conquests as some were wont to do, nor had a lady been known to openly disapprove of him.
Montsimon altered his direction and attempted to speak to the blonde widow, Althea Brookwood. She had rejected the advances of several men who hoped to take her husband’s place, either in marriage or in a discreet arrangement after he died. Not a happy marriage by all accounts. Brookwood was a nasty piece of work who was killed in a duel after cheating at cards.
After a brief curtsy, Lady Brookwood turned away to greet a lady at her elbow, treating Montsimon with appalling casualness bordering on rudeness. Strathairn noted the almost imperceptible stiffening of Montsimon’s shoulders. He doubted it would end there. The viscount would rise to a challenge, and the lady was worth fighting for.
As he and Montsimon reached the alcove, two more ladies advanced on them, seeking Montsimon’s promise to attend a poetry reading.
“Tomorrow,” Montsimon said to Strathairn. With a smile, he strolled away with the two ladies.
A few yards away, Coombe talked to Sibella. Coombe took her hands in his. Strathairn’s chest tightened at the sight. Fool that he was, he had wished her safely tucked away with this man. He hadn’t bargained on the conviction that Sibella was his and that no other man had a right to her.
After Lord Coombe left Sibella to engage someone in conversation, Strathairn made his way to her side. “Lady Sibella…” he began, not sure what he would say. The words ‘marry me’ rushed into his mind. He longed to kiss away the uncertainty in her eyes.
She stopped him, a glove on his arm. “You may be the first to offer your felicitations, Lord Strathairn. Lord Coombe and I are engaged.”
He forced a smile on his lips. He would not object, for what reason could he give? The man would give her the life she deserved. “You have it,” he said, his throat dry. “I must offer Lord Coombe my congratulations. He is a very lucky fellow.” He lowered his head to hers. “Please remember, if you ever need me for any reason, Sibella,” he said in an undertone. “Come to me or send word.”
“Thank you, my lord. I shall not forget.” Sibella’s dark lashes veiled her expression. Dear lord, may she be happy. Had he driven her to it?
Chapter Seven
Strathairn walked under the Horse Guards archway with a nod to the mounted guard. He hoped Montsimon might offer something helpful. He had a task on his hands to convince Parnell to continue the investigation into the death of his partner, Nesbit.
In his office, Montsimon and Parnell were already in deep discussion, his desk strewn with papers. The sun slanted through the window leaching color from the solemn painting of Wellington hanging on the wall.
Strathairn divested himself of his hat, gloves, and cane into the arms of Parnell’s aide. He greeted the two men, took the spare ribbon-back chair, and waited for them to resume the conversation.
Montsimon perched on the corner of the desk. “You’ll be interested in this, Strathairn. We’ve been discussing what I discovered in Paris.”
Strathairn folded his arms. “Forney?”
“I spoke to several of Forney’s former, shall we say, acquaintances. Word has it he drowned while escaping England back in ’16. His boat foundered on rocks and sank in the Mediterranean Sea. He hasn’t been sighted since, so it seems likely to be true.”
“And that puts an end to the speculation,” Parnham said.
“I don’t see how.” A heavy sensation settled in Strathairn’s chest. Aware he’d raised his voice, he took a deep breath. Anger wouldn’t work with Parnham. He had the coolest head in the business. When he spoke again, he lowered his tone. “And the Napoleonic symbol, the eagle-shaped cravat pin, identical to the one Forney used?”
“Some mischief maker.” He nodded at Montsimon. “Montsimon tells me he saw the countess in Paris. If Forney lives, he would be with her.”
Montsimon shook his head. “He wasn’t.”
“The man’s dead. Sidmouth’s network has turned up nothing,” Parnham said, “and neither has Bow Street. I suggest we let the matter rest.”
Strathairn leaned forward. “How about my new partner and I return to the docks? I’d like to discover who shot my man.”
“There’s trouble brewing in Manchester.” Parnham ran his hands through his iron-gray hair. “I can’t be responsible for everyone, Strathairn. We need to deal with that. There are agitators stirring up the people. The government must be made aware that the country is a powder keg.”
“There are a lot of hot heads, shopkeepers, tradesmen, and publicans who will cause trouble,” Montsimon said.
Parnham pursed his lips. “The government is considering the Six Acts which will forbid weapons and public meetings without a magistrate’s permit.”
“If the Act is passed, it will only stir up more trouble.” Strathairn frowned. “If they limit the freedom of the press, it will merely increase the people’s dislike of Liverpool’s government.”
Parnham shuffled the papers on his desk. “You can see why I don’t want to spend any resources on Forney. Unless and until he shows himself. We have enough to do stopping these groups intent on provoking a revolution in England.”
Summarily dismissed, Strathairn left the building. Agents such as Nesbit were dispensable. Easily replaced. There was no room for sentiment in this business.
*
Sibella endured a harrowing couple of days. Not sleeping well, she was weary of her mother clucking over her appearance. Since their engagement was announced, Lord Coombe came often to St James’s Square. So often, in fact, that she yearned for time to herself, and felt suffocated when he was in the room.
He was announced again as she tried to distract herself in the conservatory. Having bid her continue her work, he followed her about as she tidied her plants. The sun warmed the room through the cathedral glass ceiling, drawing out scents from the fruits and flowers. She wiped her moist brow with the back of her gloved hand. “The scents of oranges and lemons are delicious, don’t you think?” she asked, desperate to find a congenial subject of conversation.
“Most pleasant.” He drew out a wrought-iron chair and motioned for her to sit. “I’d like to talk about our future.”
“Oh? Yes, of course.” She removed her gardening gloves and sat.
“I am eager to show you our home. When next at Brandreth Park, we could make a day of it. You might bring Lady Maria, if you wish, although now we’re engaged a chaperone isn’t necessary.”
“I am eager to see it,” she said, fighting to sound enthusiastic.
“The house is a fine example of the period.” Lord Coombs voice rang with more fervor than she’d heard from him before.
“Arrowtree Manor was your family home?”
“Ah, no. Lady Coombe’s family home.”
“Oh, I see.”
“We lived there after my wife’s parents died as it is superior in every way to mine.”
Sibella brushed away a leaf clinging to her sleeve. She disliked the idea of living in his dead wife’s childhood home. Her doubts must have shown on her face, for he leaned forward and took her hand.
“You will love it as I do. I have no doubt.”
He began to describe the clever way the rooms were situated and the fine knot garden.
“It sounds utterly charming,” she said. “As you have no London property, where might we spend the season?”
Coombe dropped his gaze to his hands. Surely, he would come to London during the season?
“I prefer the country. My constant traveling for business takes me away from home too often as it is.”
“But I shall wish to see friends…my family.”
“Mm. I’ll give it some thought.”
She frowned at him, finding him evasive. It was hardly satisfactory to leave it so up in the air, but before she could argue the point, he rose and bowed. “Unfortunately, I have come to tell you I must take leave of you. Business calls me to Bristol. I shall be away for a
sennight.”
She rose with him. “I wish you a safe trip.”
“Only business would part me from you,” he said huskily.
He took a step closer. She stilled. He planned to kiss her. A stiff hand on her arm drew her to him and his mouth settled over hers in a brief, careful kiss. He withdrew with a sharp intake of breath. “I shall count the hours until we meet again.”
Although his words were passionate, the kiss was not. It should have sparked something in her other than dismay. She stared into eyes burning with what might have been desire, but also something else, indefinable. Again, the suspicion that he was a man who was hard to know returned to worry at her.
“I’ll walk with you to the door.”
With a strained smile, Sibella bade him farewell in the entry hall.
As he descended the front steps, a tremor of apprehension rippled along her spine. She could discern no real affection for her in his eyes. True, she may not love the man, but had she made a terrible mistake in accepting him? Was he not the same man who had wooed her? Nothing had changed. And yet…
Maria waylaid her on her way to her bedchamber. “Edward and Chaloner have been closeted in Chaloner’s study for hours.”
Suspicious, but knowing it unwise to interrupt them, Sibella lingered in the corridor. When Edward emerged, she took his arm and dragged him to the library. “Is it Vaughn?” She shut the door behind them. He grumbled at her and smoothed the superfine cloth of his sleeve where she’d clutched it.
“Is it Vaughn?” she repeated, threatening to grab his arm again.
Edward backed away, palms up. “All right, Sibella. I did not wish to tell you. Vaughn can’t be found.”
“He’s disappeared? How? When?”
“I visited his rooms yesterday. His servant hasn’t set eyes on him for over a week. I returned this morning, but he still hasn’t appeared.”
“Might he have gone off on a jaunt? To purchase a horse, perhaps?”
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