Terri Brisbin (17 page)

“Mr. Lyon, I have not seen my home in more than three years.”

“All the more reason to celebrate!”

“Mr. Lyon.” Ross stopped, and Lyon stopped beside him, blinking up into the bright afternoon sun. He took the old man’s hand and pressed another coin into his palm. “Here, drink another brandy to my sister’s happiness, and we shall be even.”

Lyon’s fingers curled over the coin, and before he could speak again, Ross had climbed into his coach, the door latch shutting behind him.

Scylla and Charybdis, indeed. Ross sighed, leaning back against the leather squabs to watch the familiar green fields and villages unwind by the coach’s window. The excitement of the past three years was over, and his adventures were done for now. He might not have earned the hero’s reputation that Ulysses had, but after traveling so far, he’d gladly exchange a hero’s welcome for a bit of quiet and peace in his own bed.

He yawned, drowsy from the ale, and settled more comfortably against the cushions. Emma’s wedding, then quiet and peace.

Quiet…and…peace….

W
ith a stride that was brisk and full of purpose, Cordelia Lyon walked up the long drive to Howland Hall, the white crushed shell crunching beneath her feet. She walked quickly because that was how she did everything—with speed, with haste, without a single second squandered—but also because the faster she walked, the less likely she was to be seen before she was ready. She was a Lyon; she knew the power of a good entrance.

She wanted to appear on the front step, composed and ready as if she’d just stepped from her barouche on a morning call, and not clambered from the wagon of the farmer who’d given her a ride from the inn to the gates. She did not want to be spotted here, on the driveway, flushed and damp and holding her skirts bunched to one side to keep them clear of the white shell dust. If she really were to salvage anything from her father’s latest brandy-soaked misadventure, she’d have to be at her best.

She paused at the bottom of the wide marble steps and looked up, blotting her face with her handkerchief as she made her appraisal. Howland Hall wasn’t a palace, but it was grand, very grand, and perfectly fit for the Earl of Mayne and his sister. Yellow limestone that gleamed golden in the early-
morning sunlight, a double row of tall arched windows, a new slate roof with strange carved figures supporting the chimneys, and everything neat and tidy with the blandishment of wealth. How on earth had Father bumbled into so agreeable a situation in a country tavern?

Shaking out her skirts, she hurried up the steps. The blue traveling gown and redingote from the costume trunks were at least ten years past the fashion, but the silver lace and buttons still showed well enough, and once she’d blotted out the creases and folds with white vinegar, she doubted any mere earl would know the difference. With her fingertips she fluffed out her hair and tipped her broad-brimmed hat at a sharper angle. She squared her shoulders, imagined her spine to be a steel bar for perfect posture and took three deep breaths to steady her voice. She grasped the dolphin-shaped knocker, and rapped it twice.

The play had begun, and Cordelia was ready with her lines.

“Good day, miss.” The footman at the door looked down his long nose at her, doing a measure of appraising himself as he glanced past her for her carriage.

“Good day.” She lifted a single brow, just enough to indicate that she did not wish to be kept waiting now that the groom had already taken her horse back to the stables. “Pray tell His Lordship I am here to see him.”

The footman hesitated, just long enough for Cordelia to glide through the half-open door as if she’d every right.

Which, of course, she believed she did.

“What name, miss?” The footman was watching her closely, still unsure whether she was to be trusted, and he’d kept the door open, too, in case he needed to usher her back outside. “Whom shall I tell His Lordship has come?”

“It is my business that His Lordship will recognize, not my name.” She perched on the edge of one of the side chairs that lined the front hall, sweeping her skirts to one side to hide the toes of her dusty shoes. This footman was no more daunting
than any other overbearing rascal she had faced for the company’s sake, except that this one wore an earl’s livery.

“You may tell Lord Howland that I am here to see him regarding Lady Emma’s wedding,” she said, “and I wish to do so as soon as possible. I know His Lordship’s here, too, because it’s far too early in the day for any gentleman to have gone out. Go on, now, tell him.”

The footman frowned. “Lord Howland does not see any caller who refuses to give a name.”

“I should venture that that is your rule, not his.” Cordelia tipped her head to one side, remembering how impressed Father had been by the earl’s generosity and kindness. “To my mind, His Lordship is less quick to judge others than you would make him seem.”

The footman’s frown deepened into a menacing glower. Oh, now she’d gone and been too forceful, too much Cordelia Lyon and too little the sort of fine young lady who would be admitted into Lord Howland’s drawing room. What manner of actress was she, anyway, to forget her character like that?

She made her face soften, beseeching, and added a tremor of emotion to her voice. She smiled but managed to bring a glisten of unshed tears to her eyes. Weeping at will had always been a specialty of hers.

“I know it is your task to be stern, sir,” she said, letting her shoulders slip into a forlorn droop. “I cannot fault you for that. If you go to His Lordship, and if he refuses to see me, then I shall leave, quiet and meek as you please. But I must try to see His Lordship. I promised my father. I cannot go until I do.”

She watched the footman’s expression shift as his sympathy for her grew and his suspicion wavered. At last he made up his mind.

“I’ll tell His Lordship you’re here, miss,” he said, finally closing the front door. “But he is at breakfast, and may not choose to see you.”

“Thank you,” she said, folding her hands in her lap. “Thank you so much. I shall be perfectly happy to wait.”

She watched the footman walk down the hall, his footsteps on the polished floor echoing with a slow, stately measure. The intense quiet of the large house seemed unnatural to Cordelia, whose own life was always surrounded by the crowded, noisy chaos of the company’s members and second-rate inns and boardinghouses. What must it be to live in a world of such constant quiet? Beyond those footsteps, all she could hear now was the equally stately and measured ticking of a case clock somewhere upstairs, and, when the footman opened another door, the gentle clink of silver cutlery against porcelain and the voices of a gentleman and girlish lady: the earl and his sister.

With renewed interest, Cordelia leaned forward, striving to catch every morsel of their conversation. She was accomplished at eavesdropping—how else did an actor glean proper accents and mannerisms except by listening?—and she’d also hoped to learn more of the earl, in case she needed it in their own conversation.

She could hear the footman announce her and the earl reply, though she couldn’t quite make out his words. He sounded far younger than the venerable figure she’d pictured from Father’s description. A world traveler, that was what Father had said, a learned, scientific gentleman who sailed to exotic places for years and years at a time. Perhaps he found the quiet of his home unnerving, too.

But most important to recall was that the earl had been enjoying the ale for which the Tawny Buck was famous. Perhaps not as much as Father—precious few men could keep pace with Alfred Lyon—but enough that likely his memory of last night would be hazy.

“His Lordship will see you now, miss.” The footman gave the slightest bow possible. “This way.”

Cordelia gave her hair an extra pat as she followed, com
posing herself. This would be the important entrance, and she was determined to make the most of it.

“The, ah, the young lady, my lord.” The footman held open the door, and Cordelia sailed inside, taking the tiny, quick steps like a dancer’s that would make her skirts flow with grace around her legs. Sunlight splashed through the tall doors, open to the lawns and gardens, and across the white-clothed table spread with a breakfast lavish enough to feed the entire Lyon Company, instead of just this brother and sister.

Cordelia made her smile as winning as she could, and ignored how her stomach was rumbling at the scent of grilled bacon, shirred eggs with cream, and rolls fresh from the bake oven.

“Good day, my lord,” she said, sweeping a spectacular curtsy with her arms extended and her wrists cocked. “How honored I am that you would agree to see me, my lord.”

“Good day to you, too.” The girl—the earl’s sister—was as pink-and-white pretty as a spun-sugar shepherdess, albeit a very young shepherdess, heedless of the buttery toast crumbs peppering her lips and chin. With a silver spoon, she ladled marmalade onto another triangle of toast as she studied Cordelia with unabashed curiosity. “I say, you don’t look at all like a menace.”

“Because I am not, my lady,” Cordelia said. “Because I am here only to bring you the greatest joy possible.”

“The greatest joy, miss?” At the far end of the table, the earl rose from his chair, his napkin clutched in an oversize hand with faded ink stains on the forefingers. He was larger than she’d expected, his broad shoulders hunched as if he spent too much time over books or a desk.

He was more handsome, too, in a shaggy sort of way, his face browned from the sun and his dark wavy hair in need of cutting. Father really should have warned her. Oh, the earl wasn’t handsome in the classical manner of the best-paid London actors, or even in the costly, groomed way of the fine gentlemen in the expensive boxes, but in an easy,
unselfconscious way that was still quite manly. And his eyes were wonderful, so deep a brown as to be almost black, and—

“Miss?”

Oh, Hades, he’d caught her gaping and was too polite to tell her. What had she missed? What had he said that she hadn’t heard? She deserved to have that footman return and toss her out as a witless ninny.

She gave a bright, rippling laugh, partly from embarrassment and partly as a distraction as she tried to recover. “Yes, my lord, the greatest joy.”

He nodded, letting her inattention pass. “Offering my sister the greatest joy is a powerfully large promise to make.”

So she hadn’t missed anything at all. She allowed herself the tiniest sigh of relief and gave thanks for his kindness. “But Lady Emma is soon to be married. Every bride deserves such promises.”

He smiled, and though Cordelia understood the smile was more for his sister than for her, it still gave her a little ripple of reflected pleasure.

“I’m sure my sister would agree with you. As you can see, she is abominably indulged.”

“Of course I would agree,” Emma said, reaching for the silver teapot. “And I am not indulged, at least not to an abominable degree. You should accept it. You’ve done the indulging.”

“More’s the pity,” the earl said, but the expression in his eyes only showed he’d spoil her a hundred times again, he adored her that much.

Emma gave a quick nod of satisfaction. “And even if you don’t know who this lady may be, Ross, you must admit that she is surpassing wise. Here, miss, please sit by me, and I’ll pour you a dish of tea.”

“Thank you, my lady, I shall.” As if she were any other genteel guest, Cordelia sat with a graceful nod as she took the dish
of tea from Lady Emma. She hadn’t dreamed matters would proceed so well, and so fast. “You are too kind.”

“Do I, ah, know you, miss?” Perplexed, the earl remained standing at the head of the table, his napkin still bunched in his hand. “From what Thomson had said, I felt sure you’d be some old acquaintance, come to welcome me back home, but for the life of me, I cannot put a name to your face.”

“Of course you can’t, Ross,” Emma said, “because you’ve never met her. I told you before she couldn’t possibly be one of your old acquaintances. They all grew weary of waiting for you to return and married other gentlemen.”

“I’m afraid Lady Emma is right, my lord,” Cordelia said. “I’ve yet to have the honor of a proper introduction to you, though you have met my father. I am Cordelia Lyon, my lord, the first lady player of the Lyon Company, and the only child of Alfred Lyon. I believe you met him last evening at the Tawny Buck.”

“Indeed.” The earl dropped heavily into his chair, and Cordelia now noticed that, unlike Lady Emma, his breakfast consisted only of pale tea, without cream: no ham, no bacon, no eggs, no sweet buns slathered with rich butter. If ever she’d needed proof that His Lordship had indulged in too much ale with her father to lead him astray, then proof there was aplenty in that spartan breakfast. The real question would be how much he remembered.

“Miss Cordelia Lyon, Alfred Lyon’s daughter.” His frown seemed to stretch across the table to her. He wasn’t happy to have her appear this morning, that was clear enough. “That would explain why you bear no resemblance to those other ladies.”

“Miss Lyon is vastly more pretty than any of those others ladies, Ross, that is why,” Emma said. “Not that you would necessarily notice, not with your nose always in a book.”

The earl took a deep breath, almost a groan. “Where is your father now, Miss Lyon? Has he come with you?”

“Oh, no.” Cordelia smiled, trying to win him back. “Father prefers to devote the morning hours to wooing his muse.”

That was what Father called it, anyway, though much of the world might regard his snoring away until noon in the garret with the rest of the company’s members as something far less creative.

“Is your father an author, Miss Lyon?” Emma asked with interest, her small white teeth biting into the orange marmalade on her toast. “I’ve never met anyone who worshiped a muse.”

“Mr. Lyon is an actor, Emma,” the earl said, “and Miss Lyon is an actress. They both belong to a gypsy dramatic company that is passing through the county just now.”

Cordelia’s smile tightened. She’d hoped for better from him, and her disappointment had a bitter taste to it. So much for kindness and generosity and warm dark eyes. She’d recognized the earl’s chilly disapproval at once. Like every player, she’d been the target of some version of it her entire life. Father should have warned her of this, too.

“My father is the proprietor, director, playwright and leading actor of the Lyon Company of Traveling Thespians,” she said, “and I am one of its actresses. We have performed in London, Bath, Edinburgh, and many towns in between, and we have entertained royalty, nobility, and other audiences of the better sort.”

Emma’s blue eyes widened. “Ooh, fancy that! Did you know that, Ross? That Miss Lyon has entertained Their Royal Majesties? And here I’ve yet even to be presented at court!”

The earl didn’t fancy it at all. “Miss Lyon’s trade is playing with words, Emma. If you took more care to listen, you would realize that by saying ‘royalty,’ she could have meant His Royal Highness the King of All Apes and Asses.”

“And I could also have meant His Royal Highness the Prince Regent, my lord,” Cordelia said with a dismissive shrug of her shoulders. “Interpretation is everything in life, my lord.”