Double Deception (21 page)

"Excuse me, milord." He addressed the earl, then turned to Mrs. Standish. "I beg your pardon, madam," he said stiffly. "I was instructed to deliver this to you the moment you came downstairs. I apologize for the delay, madam."

"Thank you, Jackson," Athena murmured, taking the missive from the butler's tray.

Jackson coughed discreetly. "I was instructed to ask you to open the letter in the presence of his lordship, madam. Those were my orders, madam. I understand the contents are rather urgent."

Athena stared at him in surprise. "I shall do so, Jackson. Thank you." He bowed and withdrew, leaving a heavy silence behind him.

Athena glanced at the two men. Which lord had the mysterious instructions referred to? she wondered, intrigued in spite of herself.

Before she could open the letter, the earl moved away from the hearth and spoke to his son. "You may be excused, Perry," he said brusquely. "I imagine this note concerns me."

"How can you be sure, Father?" Perry responded. "For all we know, it may well concern me."

Lord St. Aubyn made an impatient gesture, but Athena cut short any argument he may have contemplated. "It may well concern both of you, my lords," she said, breaking the seal and opening the thick sheet of expensive paper. She immediately recognized the St. Aubyn seal at the top of the note, but the handwriting was unfamiliar.

Athena perused the untidy scrawl quickly. Then she read it through again more slowly. No, she thought, this could not be true. But deep in her heart she knew that it was. The signs had been there for her to see all along. She marveled at her lack of perception. Everything was so clear now. Everything was explained. She felt as though she had been pushed by ruthless hands into the deepest, darkest pit imaginable.

She looked straight at Perry, ignoring the earl. "Would you leave us, please, Perry," she said in a voice that sounded as though it came from somewhere far away. "I wish to have a few words with his lordship."

The door closed behind the viscount; then, and only then, did she turn to look up at the earl. So, she thought, strangely aloof from the sense of betrayal that seeped into her heart, he had deceived her right from the start.

"Perhaps you would care to explain this, my lord?"

Athena handed him the blue sheet with fingers that had turned to ice.

***

Lord St. Aubyn gazed at her for an endless moment before he took the letter from her stiff fingers. He wished he could erase that expression of shock and hurt clouding her marvelous amber eyes, but if the mysterious letter was what he imagined it must be, Sylvester feared that his own deceptions were about to catch up with him.

The earl perused the letter slowly; it was not long, only enough to damn him completely and utterly. Intensely aware of the woman beside him, he sensed that she was willing him to deny everything. It pleased him immeasurably that Athena wanted to believe in his innocence. Pleased him and saddened him, too, for his guilt hung heavily upon him. Sylvester wished that he could deny it; he wanted fervently to deny the truth that Miss Rathbone—or whatever the vindictive chit's real name was—had so baldly scrawled on the blue paper.

But when he raised his eyes he knew she saw the truth in them even before he spoke.

"What would you have me explain, Athena?" he asked in an expressionless voice.

In truth, there was nothing to add to what was written there so damningly. Miss Rathbone's style was less than polished, and her spelling left much to be desired, but she had gone right to the heart of the matter. Had he known she was such a despicable little bitch, he would have given her the extra few pounds she had demanded last night.

He had summoned Miss Rathbone to the library after dinner, and told her bluntly that her services were no longer required at St. Aubyn Castle. He suggested an early morning departure would be appropriate, and had paid her the promised two hundred pounds for her acting skills in the little deception he had planned weeks ago.

But she had turned suddenly quite nasty. Dropping all pretense at refinement, the Beauty—and Sylvester had to admit that she was indeed that—had twined her arms about his neck and simperingly offered to warm his bed before she left. For an additional fifty pounds. His son had turned out to be quite a disappointment, she confessed, and deprived her of the romp she had been led to expect from him. She had been left in quite a lather, she had explained—in much cruder terms, Sylvester recalled with a grimace of distaste—and it was only fair that he compensate her for Peregrine's poor performance.

He had made the mistake of allowing his revulsion to show, and Miss Rathbone's sultry voice had turned ugly. "Think yerself too good for the likes of me, do ye?" she had snarled at him, her lovely face contorted with fury. "But not too high and mighty to go sniffing after your own son's mort, are ye now? Took yer fancy, did she, milord? Well, ye can forget about that starched-up bitch, milord. Believe me, ye'll get no pleasure out of her."

As suddenly as she had turned ugly, the Beauty had flashed her seductive smile again. "Now for an extra pony or two—call it appreciation for a job well done, if ye like—I could make ye forget that dowdy old Tabby, m'dear."

He had turned down her offer, perhaps not as diplomatically as he should have, and Miss Rathbone had flounced out of the library. The letter he held in his hand was her revenge for his rejection. It had been shortsighted of him not to have seen it coming.

Yes, his deceptions had indeed caught up with him, Sylvester thought bitterly, and he could tell from the bleakness in the widow's eyes that he had burned his bridges with her as surely as Perry had done. The irony of it was that, like his son, Sylvester wanted her forgiveness above anything. Unlike Perry, however, whom Athena had forgiven with a rare demonstration of genuine affection, he could hope for nothing but contempt from this female who had stirred his heart again after too many years of loneliness.

He saw her take a shuddering breath. "Are you telling me that this is true, my lord?" she demanded in a whisper. "That you did indeed pay Miss Rathbone two hundred pounds to seduce your son away from me? And that you yourself..." She paused, seeming overwhelmed by the enormity of his deception. "... That you deliberately set out to seduce me away from Perry?"

Her eyes were luminous with unshed tears, and Sylvester wanted desperately to take her in his arms, as he had yesterday afternoon, and kiss her fears away.

"Is that what you believe I did, Athena?" The note of pleading in his voice reminded him of Perry, who had pleaded with her and been forgiven. She had forgiven his son with a generosity that had moved him deeply. Now if only she could find it in her heart to ... But no, he thought with a sinking feeling, his guilt was far greater than Perry's. He had laid siege to her heart without a thought for the damage he might do.

"What I believe appears to have no relation at all to reality, my lord," she replied, so softly he could hardly hear her. "You have made complete fools out of both of us. I suppose I should congratulate you," she said with evident difficulty. "You have achieved your wish. Perry is free of me. I hope that he never finds out the double deception his father devised to obtain that freedom."

Her words, so softly spoken, seemed to brand themselves in his mind. Sylvester winced. "Before you condemn me entirely, at least allow me to speak in my defense," he said, wondering what he could possibly say to mitigate his guilt in her eyes.

"That will not be necessary, my lord," she said coolly. With a moue of distaste, she picked up the blue paper from the round table where he had thrown it. "You have refused to deny it, so I must assume ..." Her voice suddenly quavered out of control, and Athena turned and fled.

Sylvester listened to her rushing footsteps disappearing in the direction of the stairs. His heart cringed at the sound of her door closing in the hall above.

***

By the time Athena reached the safety of her room, the tears ran unchecked down her face. Casting herself upon her bed, she let her misery pour out in great gulping sobs, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably with each fresh wave of tears. She could not remember being so overwhelmed by grief since her mother died, leaving her bereft of the protective warmth Lady Rotherham had woven around her only daughter.

Athena moaned into the damp pillow. Today she felt the same sense of abandonment she had felt then. Her world, unstable at best but at last under nominal control, had fallen apart beneath her feet. Her tenuous illusions had blown up in her face, leaving her with nothing to hold on to in the dark days ahead.

She curled herself into a ball, her face turned from the window through which the rays of sunlight bespoke a glorious summer day. But not for her, she thought disconsolately. Not for her the warmth of the summer breeze, the perfume of the flowers, the starlit sky under which Castle guests would dance and make merry this evening in honor of Perry's twentieth birthday. She would see none of it.

Suddenly, Athena felt very very old indeed. Her throat constricted but the healing tears would not come. She closed her swollen eyes and gradually sleep took her into an uneasy rest.

"My dear girl, whatever is the matter?"

Athena opened her eyes to see the anxious face of Aunt Mary leaning over her.

"It is nearly one, dearest, and the family is gathering for nuncheon. I thought we could go down together, love." Her aunt regarded her with sharp blue eyes. "But I see you are not feeling quite the thing, dear," she continued gently, pushing a strand of Athena's hair off her face. "Perhaps we can have a tray sent up, and you can tell me what has upset you so."

Athena struggled to sit up, feeling sluggish and exhausted with grief. "I am not hungry, Aunt. And I would rather be alone, if you please."

It seemed quite impossible to speak about her recent humiliation to anyone, much less her aunt, whose sympathy would only bring more tears.

"Nonsense, dear," Aunt Mary chided her. "You cannot dawdle in bed, today of all days. Have you forgotten Perry's ball? Lady Sarah is counting on you to arrange the flowers, dear. And no doubt she will have a dozen other tasks for us. Here," she continued briskly, "let me put this cool cloth on your forehead, dear. You look quite dreadful, I must say."

The cool lavender water felt good on her heated brow, and Athena felt herself relax under her aunt's ministrations.

"Her ladyship will have to get along without me today," she said firmly. "I shall stay here in my room until I can arrange for transport back to London. I hope I never seen another Steele for as long as I live."

"You have broken with Perry, I take it?"

"Indeed I have. And his father may go straight to the devil for all I care," she added viciously.

Quite suddenly, the tears started again, accompanied by great shudders that Athena seemed unable to control.

Her aunt sat down on the bed and gathered her niece into her arms. "There, there, my pet," she crooned, stroking Athena's tangled hair until she relaxed against her aunt's ample bosom. "Tell your old auntie all about it, dearie. What has that scoundrel done to my little girl?"

Quite undone by such genuine affection, Athena opened her heart and poured out her misery as her aunt rocked her gently and murmured soothing nothings in her ear.

"And here is the proof of his infamy," she said at last, feeling considerably restored after her confession. She thrust the incriminating letter—somewhat crushed and smeared with tears—into her aunt's hands.

Mrs. Easton read it in silence.

"Well," she said after a lengthy pause, "this settles it. We shall all depart tomorrow as soon as I can find out when the London stage leaves Camelford. This," she shook the crumpled blue sheet of paper in the air, "is the outside of enough. We shall go back to Mount Street, my dear, and everything will be the way it was before."

Athena's spirits, which had risen as she unburdened herself to her aunt, sank again. In spite of Aunt Mary's optimism, nothing would ever be the same again. To believe that was to disregard the ugly reality of the earl's deception that would leave its mark on all of them. When they left the Castle, they would all abandon something they had treasured, something that would scar their hearts and minds.

Particularly her heart, Athena thought. Whereas Aunt Mary would be deprived of the comfortable position of companion to Lady Sarah, and Penelope would have to give up her pony Buttercup, Athena herself would leave behind her heart, a foolish heart to be sure, but the only one she had. It would remain in the possession of a thorough scoundrel, a man who had used it as a plaything to bring about the downfall of her dreams.

Those dreams she had brought with her to St. Aubyn Castle had been foolish, too, she had to admit. The earl had proved beyond a doubt that her heart had never belonged to Peregrine, and never would. He had prevented her from making a disastrous mistake. But why had he led her to believe ... ? Why had he been so tender? Had she imagined his concern? Had that all been pretense, too?

"No," she exclaimed, suddenly determined that her aunt, at least, would not be deprived of the position Lady Sarah offered her. "Penelope and I will leave, Aunt. You have already accepted the position of companion to Lady Sarah. I would not have you give that up, dear."

"Fiddle!" her aunt exclaimed. "I shall do no such thing. In fact, I intend to inform her ladyship this very instant that I cannot stay under the same roof as that lying rogue."

And before Athena could stop her, she had whisked out of the room, carrying the blue letter with her.

***

Athena knew she must have dozed off after Aunt Mary left her, for when she again opened her eyes, the room was dim as though someone had drawn the curtains to shut out the sun. Her pillow was damp beneath her cheek, and her hair was miserably tangled over her face. Her favorite blue lustring must be horribly creased, she thought, wishing she had taken it off before abandoning herself to her paroxysm of grief.

She stretched her cramped legs, which had been curled up against her chest, and discovered that her stockinged feet were cold.