The horses splashed across the rocky bottom, climbed the mossy bank on the far side, and emerged into a glade.
“Where to now, Lady Sibella?” Manley’s horse danced about, eager to gallop across the flat ground.
Sibella paused to get her bearings. The wind picked up and gold-edged gray clouds raced across the sky toward them, blocking the sun. A flash of lightning lit up the landscape and the rumble of thunder followed in an alarmingly short time. She tried to remember Coombe’s description of his lands.
“I believe we are now on Arrowtree land. We must take a diagonal path across the glade and travel south,” she called, praying she was right.
They rode over a plowed field bordered by hedgerow trees, the harvesting over. Another half hour passed, and gusts of wind began to tug at her hat. Rain-laden clouds caught up with them and loomed overhead. Lightning flashed again, the thunder deafening. She glanced up in dismay when a raindrop touched her cheek. “We must hurry,” she called to Manley.
Sibella touched her mare with her crop and they galloped across a meadow and jumped a fence, surprising grazing sheep. She scanned the horizon and caught sight of smoke blown about by the wind. “There’s the manor,” she shouted, hoping it was Coombe’s.
She set the mare at a wooden gate and cleared it easily. With Manley close behind her, she rode on through a copse of beech trees. Her thigh muscles aching. She’d not had such a long demanding ride in years.
Moments later, as droplets ran down her neck, they emerged onto the lawns of a small park at the stables of Arrowtree Manor.
Sibella dismounted as a stable hand rushed out to greet them. She nodded to the fellow and handed the reins to Manley. “Wait until I send for you.” She hurried over the gravel drive to the house and circumnavigating it, approached the front door. She brushed the droplets from her damp green velvet habit as a maid answered the door. “Please inform Lord Coombe that Lady Sibella Winborne is here.”
The maid curtsied. “The master isn’t here, my lady.”
“Oh, he’s left already?” Sibella stepped through into the entry hall. “Then I’ll speak to the housekeeper.”
She was shown into the drawing room. Heavy rain beat at the windows and the trees swayed about in a gale. Her stomach roiling with nerves, she couldn’t sit and strolled around, studying the room again. She had not cared for the house the first time and liked it no better now. Mary Jane seemed to haunt every nook and cranny. She rubbed her arms and took herself to task. She was being fanciful. What was the matter with her?
The housekeeper, Mrs. Elphick, appeared. “My goodness, Lady Sibella, you’ve missed Lord Coombe by several hours. Surely he wasn’t expecting you?”
Sibella smiled. “No, it was a spur-of-the-moment decision, Mrs. Elphick. I rode over hoping to catch him.”
“You rode, alone?” The housekeeper’s eyes narrowed, although she fought to hide her disapproval.
“My groom awaits me in the stables. My sister and I are visiting the Duke of Lamplugh. Lady Maria is soon to marry his son, the Marquess of Harrington.”
The mention of the duke worked, and a smile appeared on Mrs. Elphick’s long face. “My goodness, all the way from Lamplugh Abbey. I’m sure you’ll be wanting a cup of tea after your long ride. You’ve avoided the bad weather. But how shall you get home?”
“A bit of rain never hurt anyone, Mrs. Elphick.”
“My good mother never recovered from a soaking. Came down with a chest complaint, and that was the end of her.”
“I am sorry to hear it. But how annoying to have missed Lord Coombe. I wished to discuss with him several pieces of furniture my mother has gifted to me. I’m sure I can find a place for them.”
“Lady Coombe furnished the house most carefully. I doubt there’s a corner that hasn’t been filled.”
“Then some pieces must be replaced.” Sibella walked around the room determined to put her mark on the house if only in her mind.
Mrs. Elphick nodded doubtfully. “Yes, my lady, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll see to the tea.”
“I’ll shall make a quick inspection before I take my tea. I wish to see the bedchambers. I have an excellent desk I plan to place in my bedchamber for correspondence.”
Mrs. Elphick hovered at the door. “Oh? Yes, of course. I’ll have a footman escort you.”
“Not necessary, thank you. I know my way around after you so kindly showed me over the house the last time I came.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Elphick said again, looking so helpless Sibella had begun to feel sorry for her. “I’ll see to the tea, I’m sure Cook has some of her excellent carrot cake to tempt you. If you’ll excuse me?”
Sibella gathered up her skirts and climbed the stairs. With little effort, she located what must once have been Mary Jane’s chamber, furnished in Chinoiserie silks. A delicate perfume still hung in the air as if she’d just left the room. The chamber was a riot of pattern and color, unlike the formal decoration employed in the rest of the house: embroidered cushions on the silk counterpane, a flowery carpet, and romantic tapestries.
Sibella had noticed some excellent French pieces about the house. Perhaps Mary Jane inherited them from her Huguenot ancestors. There was a dainty cylinder-top bureau with finely inlaid rosewood parquetry against one wall. Sibella hurried over and pulled out each of the three small drawers. All empty. She turned her attention to the rest of the furniture, but the room had been stripped of its former occupant’s belongings. Nothing remained of Mary Jane except those small decorative touches and the hint of her perfume.
Relieved to find the corridor empty, Sibella dashed into the next chamber. Coombe’s. His clothes in the clothes press confirmed it. A handsome boxwood bureau de Pente decorated with floral inlays stood by the window. The fall-front bureau was locked. Sibella rummaged through the drawers of a table by the bed but found no key. She bent down and pulled up the edges of the rug, then searched behind the curtains. Aware that the housekeeper would soon come to find her, she spun around. She bit her lip and examined the ornate brass keyhole; doubtful Coombe would have taken such a big key with him. Just supposing he wished to keep it hidden from the servants? Where might he put it? Her breath shortened as she searched every corner of the room with mounting panic.
Where could it be? She gazed around not prepared to admit she’d failed.
The bed! A feminine choice for a gentleman’s bedchamber, elaborately carved, the header and footer painted cream and decorated with swags, ribbon motifs, and knotted bows. Under the mattress was a logical hiding place. She felt along under the soft mattress—nothing. She uttered a faint curse, a favorite of one of her brothers, and ran her hands over the surface of the mattress hunting for a hard object. Again, nothing. She straightened. That left the dome finials. She seized each one in turn. Three were fixed tight, and she was quickly growing disheartened until the last one moved in her hand. Endowed with panic-filled strength, she twisted the finial, first one way and then the other. Her heart thudding, the painted knob came free in her hand. With a gasp, she peered inside. A space was hollowed out. Nestled within was a brass key.
She clamped her lips on a triumphant cry, rushed to the bureau, and inserted the key in the lock. It turned and the fall-front opened. It was a complex piece of furniture, but luckily, a similar piece lived in her mother’s dressing room at Brandreth Park. She’d played at the desk as a child, and could locate the hidden locked drawers, and now opened each one. Mary Jane’s jewels were wrapped in velvet, as well as some documents, which a cursory glance showed were of no great interest. Deep within the desk, she found a sheath of letters written in a lady’s hand. She held them to her nose, recognizing Mary Jane’s perfume. With no time to read them, she raised her skirt and tucked them into the top of her stocking, securing them beneath her garter. She rustled when she walked, but it couldn’t be helped. She just had time to lock the desk and replace the key, for a solid tread sounded on the stairs.
Sibella hurried from the room. “I see the
re are several nice pieces here already,” she said, finding the housekeeper hovering in the corridor.
“Lady Coombe had excellent taste. Your tea is ready, my lady. I hope you have had sufficient time to look around at your leisure.”
“How thoughtful, thank you. Now I could do with that cup of tea.”
In the drawing room once again, Sibella sat on the velvet sofa. The maid brought in a tray. She unloaded the tea things, sandwiches, and a slice of carrot cake onto a rosewood pedestal tea table, scrutinized by Mrs. Elphick.
“You have a long, wet ride home.” Mrs. Elphick gave a gloomy shake of her head, no doubt thinking Sibella mad to have ridden all the way there.
“I expect so. Could you arrange for my groom to be given something to eat? These look quite delicious.”
As soon as Mrs. Elphick left the room, Sibella stood and removed the bunch of letters from her stocking. An eye on the door, she opened one. It was signed ‘your loving wife’. Disappointed, she returned the letter to the pile. She poured the tea into the china cup and added milk. Taking a sip, she picked up another letter. She read it in its entirety without a twinge of guilt. Perhaps Mary Jane would approve.
The letter began ordinarily enough but with a pleading tone. What followed was shocking. The neat sentences grew longer and less well formed, degenerating into accusations. Was she merely ill and a little unstable? Sibella opened another and scanned the words. Similar to the first, but with each one, little by little, a story evolved.
His lordship had refused to come to his wife’s bed. He made no secret of the female slave he’d brought to England and deposited in London, whom he visited whenever he wished. Apparently, he failed to hide his lack of desire for Mary Jane, telling her that her illness and the smell of laudanum made her unattractive to him. Each of her letters grew wilder, more enraged, and desperate. The final one dated twentieth May 1815, was addressed to him in the West Indies.
Mary Jane had found the slave he’d hidden in London. She learned from her how he mistreated the women at his plantation, having his way with them and begetting children, when he never came near her. This last letter was so explicit, it turned Sibella’s stomach. Mary Jane threatened to expose Coombe’s behavior to society. England was turning away from slavery, she wrote, and even though he may escape prosecution, he would be condemned.
Oh, poor, poor Mary Jane. Sibella’s eyes filled with tears. She wiped them away as anger churned her stomach. She gathered up the letters and stuffed them back under her garter. If this was not concrete proof that something evil had taken place here, it was certainly enough for Chaloner to see what a horrible man Coombe was and agree to put an end to their engagement.
She pushed away the cake, her appetite quite ruined, and went to ring for the housekeeper.
Mrs. Elphick appeared moments later.
“Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Elphick. I must be on my way.” She straightened her skirts, aware of a crackle from the bulky letters. “When was it that poor Lady Coombe passed?”
“Just after his lordship arrived back from the West Indies on 22 August 1815. Such a sad day I will never forget it.”
“Sad indeed.” Sibella pulled on her gloves. “I’ll walk to the stables.”
“I do hope you have a safe journey home, Lady Sibella,” the housekeeper said in a mournful tone. “But the rain…”
Sibella shook her head. “I’m a good rider. A little bad weather shall not bother me.”
“I look forward to you returning as my mistress.” The housekeeper escorted her into the hall where a footman stood waiting.
“How kind, thank…” The footman opened the door.
Lord Coombe stood on the step.
A groom held an umbrella over his head in the pelting rain. Horrified, Sibella watched the play of emotions travel over his face. Exasperation was quickly replaced by astonishment and then suspicion, which turned his brown eyes to stone.
Chapter Twenty-One
Strathairn put up at a coaching inn in Tunbridge Wells on his way to Brandreth Park. As he was shown to his room, he wondered how he would tell Chaloner and the family the news about Moreau without causing them alarm and anxiety. There was no way, he just had to tell them. He couldn’t bear any harm to come to Sibella or indeed the rest of the family. He would stress to them the security arrangements that Parnham had made at the cathedral.
The next day, after a sleepless night, as thoughts of Sibella filled his mind, he drove his phaeton through the gates at Brandreth Park at mid-morning, eager to see her again.
The butler, Belton, assisted him out of his greatcoat. “The family are in the salon, my lord.”
Strathairn entered the room where the dowager sat with Vaughn, Chaloner, Lavinia, and their children.
“Strathairn, you have arrived in time for luncheon,” Chaloner said. “We received your note. What news do you have?”
“It may spoil your appetite, Chaloner. I wish I didn’t have to tell you this.” Strathairn took a seat as a stunned silence settled over the room as he talked.
Chaloner leaped from his chair before Strathairn finished speaking. “This is beyond the pale! We shall have to delay the wedding. Or hold it in another church. St. Georges, Hanover Square perhaps.”
“I doubt the duke and duchess would agree to that,” the dowager said, seemingly unruffled by the news. “They planned their son’s wedding at St. Paul’s the day he was born. And you can hardly ask the Regent to order a change in his itinerary.”
“It’s your decision, naturally,” Strathairn said. “It’s the opinion of the home secretary that if the assassin does strike, it will be at the Grand Gala held at Vauxhall Gardens, under the cover of Signora Hengler’s fireworks display.”
“Surely that must be the better choice of the two,” the dowager said. “I read of it in the London Times. Madame Saqui plans an astonishing ascent on the tightrope, amidst a brilliant display of fireworks.”
It sounded feasible, but Strathairn remained uneasy. “If the wedding takes place, rest assured, St. Paul’s will be surrounded by guards and more will guard the interior. Discreetly, of course.”
“Well, it sounds like pure conjecture to me.” Vaughn leaned back and crossed his arms. “I say we allow the duke to make the final decision on the matter.”
“That’s sensible, Vaughn.” His mother directed a fond smile at him.
Vaughn pushed himself to his feet and stretched, puffing out his chest. “If you can spare Strathairn, I need to discuss business with him.”
Strathairn stood. “After which, I’ll say my farewells and continue on to Lamplugh Abbey.”
“A noisy coaching inn for luncheon? Nonsense,” the dowager said. “You’ll eat here, of course.”
“You must, Lord Strathairn,” Lavinia said. An ethereal looking woman, fine-boned and delicate, but the look she gave her mother-in-law was sharp.
Chaloner nodded. “Yes, I’d welcome a chance to talk further to you on this.”
Strathairn bowed. “Thank you. You are most kind, but surely, it’s inconvenient. I expect the whole family is here.”
“Sibella and Maria are not.” The dowager fixed him with one of her challenging stares. “They are visiting Harry’s parents.”
“Then I shall have the opportunity of explaining the situation to them there this afternoon,” Strathairn said.
“You won’t scare Sibella,” her mother said. “She wouldn’t have Maria’s wedding spoiled for anything. She is a game one.”
He couldn’t help smiling. “I’m aware of that.”
“High time you were,” the dowager said with a lift of her brows.
Chaloner grimaced. “Mother, please.”
His mother ignored him, her eyes on Strathairn. “My son Bartholomew will journey from York to preside over Sibella and Coombe’s wedding.”
“You will be pleased to see your son again, my lady,” Strathairn said, refusing to be drawn.
The dowager gave a sharp nod. “I shall speak to you befo
re you leave, Strathairn.”
“Certainly, my lady. I await your summons.” He smiled slightly and bowed, then followed Vaughn from the room, wondering what the imperious dowager marchioness had in mind for him. Surely, it was a little late to chide him. Or was she as worried about Sibella as he was?
*
“Brown, don’t just stand there dripping on the step. Remove yourself and that umbrella along with you,” Coombes yelled at the hapless groom.
“Henry!” Pulse racing, Sibella hurried forward to take Coombe’s arm. “I thought I’d missed you. I rode over from Lamplugh Abbey. Mama has given me some lovely furniture and I hope to find places to put them.” She drew back. “But, you’re drenched through. You must change immediately. What has happened to prevent your journey?”
Coombe’s dark inscrutable eyes wandered over her. Apparently, he liked what he saw for his brown eyes brightened. “The storm has caused chaos. Floodwater washed down from the north. A bridge is damaged and the road impassable. We were forced to turn back.”
“How annoying for you.” Sibella’s mind whirled. She must get away from here before he discovered the missing letters. But how? “I’m sure you are in need of a hot drink.” She nodded at Mrs. Elphick, who stood waiting, her hands clasped at her waist. “After you’ve changed your clothes, Henry, please join me in the dining room.”
“I’m not as wet as all that,” Coombe said. He put a foot on the stair. “Come and show me where you propose these pieces of furniture to go. What are they?”
She struggled to breathe normally as she mentioned several pieces her mother would never part with. “The Chippendale desk and a pair of Louis XV chairs which are quite exquisite. They would be perfect for my bedchamber which I gather is the room to the right of the stairs?”
Seducing the Earl Page 19