Amanda Scott (3 page)

“Perhaps not, but he was able to see one or two things for himself, after all, during our come-out Season. Remember his reaction when we held our Venetian breakfast in your mama’s garden and swore to him that all the ladies and gentlemen were going to wear Roman costumes?”

Lady Joan gurgled with laughter. “He wore a toga! Oh, Sylvie, that was indeed too bad of us. Harry was livid.” Her golden eyes widened as a thought occurred to her. “I do hope you don’t mean to tease him about that. He truly made no fuss at all when I told him you were coming to us, but if you were to be so tactless as to remind him of that, I cannot answer for the consequences. He is a most obliging husband, but he does still have a bit of a temper.”

Sylvia shook her head. “Never fear. I shall be as close as an oyster. Indeed, I shall be as sympathetic to Lady Ermintrude as it is possible for me to be, and I promise to be ever the obedient, respectful guest when Harry is present. But, Joan, you are quite right. I am in town for a purpose, and I doubt I shall remain for long. Papa will fret if I am away for more than a week. He has grown to depend on me, you see, and though he pays little heed to what goes on around him in the normal course of things, he becomes like a bear with a sore head when he is uncomfortable. I shouldn’t like to go home to find that the servants have fled.”

“Then why are you here? You mentioned that it was a matter of great importance, but you went into no detail. And why on earth,” she added as another thought crossed through her mind, “are you fussing over Lady Greyfalcon? I know they are your neighbors, and I know that his lordship died some weeks ago, for there were notices in all of the papers, but surely she still has family to look after her and a host of servants. Don’t forget, I have seen that monstrous pile of stone they live in and noted the great number of servants they employ.”

Sylvia grimaced. “That is precisely why I am in town. She has always been more than kind to me, in her fashion, so I quite naturally made a point of visiting her often after his lordship’s death, with the result that she has come to depend upon me. Do you know that Sir Francis—or Greyfalcon, as we should now style him—has not set foot on the place since his father died? His mama has had no more than the briefest civil note from him. Well, no, that is not precisely true,” she added conscientiously. “He did respond to a letter I wrote in her name, informing her most politely that the country bored him and that he would rather remain in town.”

“No, Sylvie, you are jesting.”

Sylvia explained the matter in rather more detail, and when she had finished, Lady Joan frowned, saying, “I cannot say I like Greyfalcon very much, for I cannot help but recall, whenever I hear his name, that very dreadful scene at school after Christopher helped us get back into the grounds that night and we were all caught by Miss Pennyfarthing herself.”

“Greyfalcon was scarcely responsible for our mischief,” Sylvia said with a grin.

Lady Joan was indignant. “Of course he was not, but it was he who made Christopher apologize to Miss Pennyfarthing, which gave her the notion that we ought to apologize to him—to Sir Francis, that is—for being the cause of his being called up to Oxford. And say what you might, he had no right to scold us, whatever he might have chosen to say to Christopher. And the whole, moreover, was Christopher’s fault, for he sent for Sir Francis in the first place.”

Sylvia shivered, for Lady Joan’s words brought Francis Conlan’s image to mind as clearly as though she had conjured the tall, dark-haired, broad-shouldered man into the room. She remembered his quick, restless movements and sweeping gestures. Indeed, she could almost hear his voice, as deep as the bottom of a well and nearly as cold, for he had not been in a pleasant frame of mind that day.

“Christopher didn’t have enough money to pay his fine after Miss Pennyfarthing complained to his bagwig,” she said. “He knew it would be useless to apply to his papa, and so he wrote to Sir Francis to ask him to send the money under his seal. Instead, Sir Francis came in person. Christopher hadn’t written the details to him, but of course his brother had them out of him in a trice once he was there at Oxford.” She was silent for a moment, remembering, then she said rather more quietly than was her custom, “I wish you had not mentioned that episode, Joan. I had forgotten Greyfalcon’s temper.”

Joan’s eyes suddenly narrowed in suspicion, and Sylvia could almost see the thoughts organizing themselves in her quick mind. Thus, knowing of old that it was rare that one needed to explain details to her friend, she was not surprised when that young lady said sharply, “You have come to drag Greyfalcon back to Oxfordshire! Sylvie, are you mad?”

“Not mad, merely angry. And do not fly up into the boughs, for I have no intention of doing anything idiotish. I meant at first only to write to him again, to ask him to call so that we might discuss the matter. I thought that if I could see the man face to face, I might convince him that he is needed at home.”

“But you cannot write to him. Harry would have a fit. Perhaps—”

“No, Joan,” Sylvia cut in, seeing where her friend’s thoughts were taking her, “I shall not ask Harry to speak to Greyfalcon for me. Harry is several years younger than he is, for one thing, and will likely be intimidated by him. And though I am sure Harry will make his mark one day, I do not think he would carry much influence with Greyfalcon now.”

“And you will?” Lady Joan’s skepticism was clear in her tone.

Sylvia grinned again. “He could scarcely ignore me if I were standing before him, and I am certainly not afraid of him.” A small chill raced up her spine as she said the final words, for the vision she had had earlier leapt back into her mind, and it was hard to see Greyfalcon as anything but one of the adults who had so often been annoyed by the pranks that she and Christopher had played as children. Though she attempted to ignore both vision and chill, telling herself firmly that she was
not
afraid of him, that he was, after all, a man who had no authority over her and one, moreover, who was merely eight years her senior, she was not altogether successful.

Lady Joan had not shot her entire bolt, either. “The fact remains that he wouldn’t need to face you, my dear. Since he would no doubt feel he is not obliged to reply to so improper a letter, he would only ignore it. Then where would you be?”

“I did not mean to write in my own name, idiot, but in Papa’s. I did so once before, after Greyfalcon’s mama had received his reply—the one I told you about—and Greyfalcon never suspected that the letter I wrote him did not come from Papa himself. Never mind,” she added hastily when her friend’s mouth opened in amazed protest, “I thought better of that notion before ever I left for London. Despite what I said a moment ago, I know full well that even if he agreed to meet with Papa here at Reston House, his reaction when he discovered me in Papa’s place …” She shivered. “Well, it doesn’t bear thinking of. But do look at his reply to what he thought was Papa’s letter, Joan, and tell me if you have ever known such arrogance?”

Reluctantly Lady Joan perused the letter, then returned it with a small shake of her head. “He certainly seems determined to avoid Oxfordshire, does he not?”

“Well, he has reckoned without me,” said Sylvia grimly. “I told you I had devised a new plan—and a much better plan at that, Joan, one that cannot fail.”

Lady Joan stared at her for a long moment, but when Sylvia said nothing further, she gave a little gesture of defeat, and her pretty features relaxed into an acquiescent smile. “Tell me what you mean to do, dearest.”

But Sylvia shook her head. “First, I must think out a few more of the details of my plan. I know, however, that you will help me in any way that you can.”

Lady Joan nodded dubiously, biting her lip. “Harry won’t like this, Sylvie.”

“Then don’t tell him anything about it. I must say the reason I don’t tell you the whole at once is not merely that I have not yet thought out all the details but also that I don’t trust you to keep a still tongue in your head. I remember how hard it is for you to keep secrets from your husband, my dear, for which reason I do hope you never decide to play him false. You would make a poor job of it.”

“Sylvie! As though I would do such a thing!”

“No, of course you wouldn’t,” Sylvia said placatingly. “Certainly not before you present him with an heir.”

“Sylvia!”

Noting the unmistakable glint of anger in her friend’s eyes and remembering that it was one of the great sorrows of Joan’s life that she had failed, after three years of marriage, to present her spouse with a child, she capitulated at once, saying remorsefully, “I beg your pardon. It was a dreadful thing to say. Don’t be angry, dearest, I beg you.”

“Oh, I am not angry,” Joan said. “I know your foolish tongue of old.”

“Here,” Sylvia said, reaching for the teapot, “let me pour you a second cup.” She glanced at her friend, noted with relief the disappearance of the storm signals, and then her eye was caught by sight of the newspaper that had been cast aside upon her entrance. Deciding a change of subject was very much in order, she asked quickly, “What news is there? I shall depend upon you, you know, for all the latest
on-dits.
”

Lady Joan chuckled, clearly not deceived for a moment. “You never change, Sylvie. But there is not so much to tell as you might think, for we are very thin of company this early in the spring. I should still be in Somerset had Harry not been utterly determined to be present for the opening of Parliament. As it is, I am doing little other than ordering new gowns and planning our first rout party. I do wish you were staying at least that long, but perhaps you will come back for it. ’Tis to be held the second week of April.”

“Perhaps,” Sylvia agreed, unwilling to commit herself. “But surely there must be some titbit to discuss. I cannot believe London to be altogether devoid of gossip.”

“No, of course not, but about all one hears about presently, aside from Prinny’s usual demands and shortcomings, is Prime Minister Perceval’s wish to lay his hands upon some books that have gone missing. Would you credit it, Sylvie? He is said to have paid as much as five thousand pounds for a single copy.”

“Goodness, whatever is the book?”

“Here, let me find the article,” Lady Joan said obligingly, reaching for the copy of the London
Times
that lay beside her. Rustling through the pages, she came to what she was looking for. “Here it is. ‘It is rumored that our esteemed Prime Minister has been reduced to paying large sums of money (as much as five thousand pounds) for the return of several copies of
The Delicate Investigation,
purported to be a collection of the evidence gathered by his agents several years ago against the Princess of Wales. Most copies were retained by Mr. Perceval; however, several were given at the time to certain friends. It is said now that Mr. Perceval never intended the book to be made public and reportedly had burned most of the existing volumes in his own back garden. There are at least six copies, however, the whereabouts of which are unknown.’ Imagine, Sylvie,” Lady Joan said, looking up and shaking her head, “Five thousand pounds for one single book. ’Tis prodigiously hard to believe.”

“I don’t believe it,” Sylvia said flatly. “No one would pay so much for a single book.”

“Well, I should certainly like to find a copy of that book upon my own bookshelf,” Lady Joan retorted. “I’d take it to Mr. Perceval at once, and if he insisted upon paying me such a sum, I can tell you, my dear, I shouldn’t refuse to accept it.”

“No, neither should I,” admitted Sylvia, thinking of all that one might accomplish with five thousand pounds in hand.

The conversation continued along such desultory terms as these until Lord Reston returned from the House and it was time to change for dinner. Sylvia changed quickly and spent the remaining time preparing her assault against Greyfalcon. Her plan required the writing of two letters, one professing to be an open letter to both the
Times
and the
Gazette,
the other a cover note explaining the first. Carefully imitating her father’s hand again, she wrote them both before joining her host and hostess for dinner. Afterward, leaving her host to enjoy his postprandial port in solitude, she retired with her hostess to the saloon again.

Seating herself on a green brocade Kent chair, Sylvia smoothed the skirts of her somewhat outdated cream-colored evening gown and leaned toward her hostess, seated nearer the cheerful fire. “I believe I am ready to deal with Greyfalcon,” she confided.

“Dear me, how on earth?” Lady Joan’s eyes were wide. “And so quickly, too.”

“’Tis simple. I mean to tell him he gets no money unless he returns to Oxfordshire.”

“But you said your papa has no intention of exerting his power,” Lady Joan pointed out.

“What Papa intends and what Greyfalcon shall be made to think he intends are two separate matters,” Sylvia said loftily. “I mean him to think that Papa intends to place a notice in the
Gazette,
informing Greyfalcon’s creditors that his trustees will not be responsible for his debts and that his lordship will have no access to his inheritance until he achieves his thirtieth birthday.”

Joan gasped. “Sylvie, you couldn’t do such a thing.”

“Yes, of course I could. I did. One sees such notices often, you know, and I copied the wording from one that was in that copy of the
Times
we were looking at earlier. Such a ruse cannot fail to bring him to Oxfordshire, you know, and once he is actually there, surely he must see how greatly his presence is needed.”

“Sylvie, he will be livid.”

“No matter.” Her tone was airy now. “I shall deal with his temper when I must. His mother needs him, his estate needs him, and if no one else will make a push to make him see that, then I must. And you will help me.”

“I?” Lady Joan showed no sign of enthusiasm.

“Yes, you. You said you would not two hours ago in this very room, and surely you have not become such a staid creature as to miss such a lark as this one. Moreover, I shall not require anything more of you than your moral support—and one other small item.”