Amanda Scott (9 page)

The young woman grinned back at her. “’Tis glad we be t’ have ye back, Miss Sylvie. Cook was sayin’ only yesterday that she be plumb out o’ ideas fer ’is lordship’s dinner, ’im decidin’ of a sudden that ’e don’t fancy chicken or fish no more, ’n all.”

“Oh, has he, indeed?”

“Aye, miss. An’ partridges be not so plentiful lessin’ someone be willin’ ter hunt fer ’em. An’ ’is lordship don’t be much of a gennelmun fer takin’ ’is gun out.”

“No, that he isn’t, and I cannot even say for certain that this is a good season for partridges. I daresay Papa doesn’t know either. He’ll just have to make do. What about a nice pork roast?”

They discussed the possibilities for tempting Lord Arthur’s palate while Sylvia got out of bed and washed her face and hands at last with the water Sadie had brought her. But when she had allowed the maidservant to do up the back buttons of her sprig-muslin frock, she turned at last to the subject that had been filling her mind ever since she had wakened.

“Is the master down yet, Sadie?”

Sadie clapped a plump hand to her head, pushing her mob cap sadly askew. “If that don’t beat all, miss. Here he says I’m ter tell ye ter stir yer stumps, that he’s awaitin’ ter speak wi’ ye, and I go and plumb fergit ter tell ye atall. He’ll be wantin’ me ’ead on a platter, that ’e will.”

“It isn’t your head he wants,” said Sylvia with a grimace. “Where is he?”

“In the breakfast parlor, miss.” Sadie’s tone was subdued now, as though she sensed more from her mistress’s attitude than she had sensed earlier from her master’s. “He didn’t seem put out,” she said a moment later, as though she would soothe Sylvia’s worries. “Only said he wished to speak with ye.”

Sylvia smiled at her. “You needn’t fret, Sadie. He would never show his temper to you unless he felt you deserved to see it. I am the one who has distressed him.”

“But how, Miss Sylvie? Yer always so kind.”

“Thank you, Sadie.” Sylvia smiled but dismissed the maid, unwilling to say any more to her. When Sadie had gone, she took a last look at herself in the looking glass, smoothed a strand of hair back from her cheek, and then straightened, feeling a little as though she imagined the Christians must have felt before entering the arena to face the lions.

Her father’s mild appearance when she entered the breakfast parlor might have put this last fantasy to flight rather quickly had she not noted the steely glint in his eye when he looked up to bid her good morning.

“Good morning, Papa.” She smiled again at Sadie, who had bustled in behind her to see if there was anything she needed that was not immediately at hand. “Never mind, Sadie, I’ll serve myself. Is there hot tea in that pot?”

“Indeed, there is, miss, and toasted muffins in yon basket.”

“Then you may go and help Cook in the kitchens or see that one of the others has dusted the library, if you please.”

“Never mind the library,” Lord Arthur put in sharply as he scraped his chair back and stood up. “I’ve told you before I don’t want those women messing about in there. Besides, I’m going there myself now, and you’re to come along when you’ve finished your breakfast, Sylvia. I’ve a deal to say to you.”

“Yes, Papa,” she said meekly, exchanging a speaking look with Sadie.

The maid’s attitude was sympathetic in the extreme, and she scarcely waited until her master had gone from the room before saying, “Poor lamb, ’e do be in a fine temper, just like ye said ’e were.”

“That will be all, Sadie,” Sylvia said firmly.

“Aye, miss. Are ye sure ye’ll not want anything else?”

“I’m sure.”

Indeed, she thought, when the maid had left, she would be doing well if she would manage to swallow a morsel of toast, now that she knew her father was impatiently awaiting her arrival in the library. She tried, piling her plate with toasted muffins, jam, and sliced apples, and filling her cup from the teapot. But it was no use. After nibbling halfheartedly at a muffin and sipping a mere two sips of tea, she could stand it no longer. She simply had to get the interview over with. Accordingly, she pushed the dishes away, rang for someone to clear, and left the room, striding across the great hall to the library door, then coming to an abrupt halt outside as her courage deserted her.

Swallowing hard, she lifted her hand to knock, then thought better of it and merely opened the door. He was seated behind his huge desk, piles of books on either side of him nearly obscuring him from her view. But as the door swung open, he came to his feet.

“Come in, Sylvia.” His tone was grim, putting her courage to flight again. “Close the door behind you.”

She obeyed and began to step toward the desk, halting when he moved around it, her eyes widening at the look of anger on his face. She backed a pace toward the hearth, one hand rising involuntarily as though she would need to defend herself, her words spilling forth. “Papa, I’m sorry. What I did was thoughtless—”

“Aye, it was that,” he said curtly. But he stopped moving toward her, gestured instead toward a pair of chairs near the fireplace. “Sit down, daughter.”

She obeyed him quickly, expecting him to take the other chair. He did not. Instead, he moved to stand in front of the cold hearth, and the look he gave her brought no warmth to the room. Sylvia felt very small.

“What you did,” he began in measured tones, “was not merely thoughtless, as you say, but in defiance of the king’s law as well. You could be prosecuted and imprisoned for writing letters in another person’s hand, my girl, if anyone chose to bring charges against you.”

“Papa, you wouldn’t!”

“No, of course I wouldn’t,” he replied, seemingly angrier than ever that she might suggest such a thing. “You are my daughter, though I’m ashamed at the moment to admit it to anyone, least of all to Greyfalcon.”

Her throat seemed to close, making it nearly impossible to force the next words out. “Will Greyfalcon—”

“No, he won’t, but you put me in a dashed humiliating position, my girl,” said her father. He said a great deal more, not mincing his words in the least, and though Sylvia had thought she could not possibly feel worse than she felt already, she soon discovered that she was wrong.

There seemed to be nothing at all to say in her own defense. To try to explain to him now that she had felt as though no one would help her, that no one else was making the slightest push to get Greyfalcon to see sense, to come into Oxfordshire and tend to his business, seemed utterly pointless. Indeed, such excuses were beside the point altogether. What had seemed to be such a brilliant plan now showed itself to be not only despicable but unforgivable as well.

“You will apologize to Greyfalcon before the day is done,” Lord Arthur said at last, “and to the countess as well, for having the impertinence to interfere in her private affairs.”

She nodded, her countenance paling at the thought of having to face Greyfalcon again. But she knew there was no getting around it. She would have to do as Lord Arthur commanded, not so much because he commanded it as because she knew now that she owed as much to the earl.

With all her father had said to her, he had mentioned nothing of her visit to Brooks’s, which could mean only one thing: Greyfalcon had not told him. That he had said nothing of her visit to the house on Curzon Street was just as clear, but she had not expected him to mention that. Regardless of what his reasons might have been, it was scarcely the thing to keep a young woman of good family captive overnight in one’s bachelor establishment. But there had been nothing to stop him from telling Lord Arthur about her visit to Brooks’s, and if Lord Arthur knew about that … Sylvia shuddered, unable to convince herself that in that case he would merely have a few more harsh things to say to her.

“Well, Sylvia?” he said now, and she realized he had been waiting for her reply.

“I will do as you bid, sir,” she said quietly. “I will ride over to the park at once. And, Papa”—he regarded her grimly—“I-I’m sorry, Papa. Truly, I am.”

He nodded, gave a little wave of dismissal, and turned away. She knew then that he would not forgive her easily, that she would be in disgrace for some time to come. The tears that had not come while he scolded her flooded her eyes now, but she blinked them away and managed to retain what little dignity she had left as she arose from her chair and took her leave.

Upstairs, as she changed from her muslin frock to her fawn-colored riding habit, she was forced more than once to blink back the tears, until finally, thoroughly disgusted with herself, she dampened a cloth with water from the ewer and washed her face, scrubbing until her cheeks were red in an attempt to wash the desire for tears away. Sylvia did not cry. It was a point of pride with her, just as it had been a point of pride with the youthful Christopher, from whom she had learned most of what she knew about pride and honor. Not crying meant being in control, and being in control of oneself and one’s emotions was of paramount importance.

At last, her whip and dark leather gloves in hand, she made her way to the big barn behind the manor house that served as its stable. There she found the stableboy, Tad, willing to saddle her mare, Sunshine, and minutes later, she and the mare were ready. Allowing Tad to give her a hand up, she tucked her right leg securely into the saddle’s leg rest and her left foot in the stirrup, gathered her reins, and settled her feathered hat more firmly onto her head. Then, with a cheerful wave at the stableboy, she touched Sunshine with her spur and guided her out of the stableyard onto the hedge-lined path that led toward the water meadows.

The two miles between the manor house and the park took less than half an hour to cover, although Sylvia made no attempt at all to hurry the mare. At last, however, the gates of Greyfalcon Park loomed ahead of her. They were open, as always, so there was nothing to delay her. Fifteen minutes later she was dismounting in the drive before the broad stone steps of the great house and handing her reins to a stableboy whose sole task seemed to be to await visitors there. Moments after that the footman, Thomas, was ushering her into Lady Greyfalcon’s saloon. The curtains were open today, letting the bright sunshine flood the room, and her ladyship sat upright upon an upholstered Kent chair, plying her needle. Spread across her lap was a piece of fancy-work that looked as though it were intended to be a chair cover. Whatever it was, Sylvia thought, it looked very cheerful, as did her ladyship.

She put down her needle as Sylvia entered and said in her cultivated tones, “My dearest child, do come in. We will have tea, Thomas.”

“At once, m’lady.”

The footman closed the doors behind him, and Sylvia advanced to greet her hostess. “You are looking very well, ma’am,” she said, smiling.

“Indeed, I am feeling very well, and it is all your doing, my dear, dear girl.”

“Then you will perhaps be surprised to learn that I have come to apologize for interfering in your affairs,” Sylvia said with a slight flush upon her cheeks.

“Apologize? Whatever for? Why, you have brought dearest Francis home when I had quite despaired of him.”

Dearest Francis, Sylvia thought, keeping her face blank with great effort, for it was difficult not to think of her hostess’s last description of her oldest son, as inconsiderate as his father had always said he was. But Sylvia put this thought firmly from her mind. Though the countess seemed to be delighted, she had still promised her father that she would carry out his orders.

“I am glad you are pleased to have him home again,” she said carefully, approaching to stand directly before the countess, her hands folded together, “but I fear I got him here under false pretenses. He is very angry with me, ma’am, as is my father. And I did interfere where I should not, you know. ’Twas no affair of mine.”

“Fiddlesticks,” replied her ladyship, setting aside her needlework altogether and gesturing toward the chair facing her own. “Do sit down, child, and pull your chin up from the floor. I make no doubt that Francis is displeased. Indeed, I know he is, for he told me so himself, having got it into his head somehow that I had put the notion of fetching him home into yours. Which I did not.”

“No, ma’am,” Sylvia said, taking the chair to which she had been directed. “I take full credit, or blame, for the entire business. And whether you agree or not, I do know that I owe you an apology for bringing him to you in such a state. He is furious with me.”

The door opened to admit the footman once more, and Lady Greyfalcon waited until he had served them and departed before she said with unusual candor, “What you did, my dear, you did do for me, whether I put the notion in your head or not, for it was my megrims and complaints that stirred you to action. I make no apology myself, for I have indeed been most grievously put upon. You cannot deny that, though Francis does so. He cannot know how difficult it has been for me.” She sighed. “One must forgive him. He is rarely unwell himself, so he simply has no understanding of my complaints.”

“Where is he, ma’am? Though I should much prefer to sit quietly with you and drink my tea, I must find him, for I have promised Papa that I will apologize to him as well.”

“Goodness,” said her ladyship, diverted. “Did Lord Arthur command your apology to me?”

“He did, and whether you agree or not, rightly so, ma’am.”

“Well, I never …” But she seemed pleased, rather than otherwise.

“Ma’am,” Sylvia said, attempting to recall her hostess’s attention, “his lordship?”

“Oh, heavens, I don’t know where he is, my dear. I haven’t seen him all day. I had breakfast in my boudoir, and by the time I came downstairs, he was nowhere to be seen.”

“Perhaps one of the footmen—”

“Of course, just pull the bell, won’t you?” Her ladyship’s pale-blue eyes twinkled as she added, “If you are quite certain you wish to find him.”

Sylvia was by no means certain. If she had seen him immediately, perhaps, she might have been able to extend her apology with dignity and decorum. But this delay, the countess’s clear approval of what she had done—it was all very difficult. Reluctantly she pulled the bell and even more reluctantly did she make her wishes known to Thomas when he answered her summons.