A Lady of Talent (22 page)

She was so wrapped up in her own misery that she did not notice that Neville was leaving her quite alone. Usually he felt compelled to interrupt her work for one reason or another, whether it was to show off the latest way of arranging his cravat or taking snuff, or to badger her to leave off her work for awhile and behave like a proper gentlewoman.

In fact, in the days that ensued—each one following the next in endless, tedious succession, with nothing in particular to distinguish one from the other, and with nothing in particular to look forward to except more of the same—Neville was to be seen even less than usual around the house in Golden Square.

While it was true that he spent most of his days among the crowd at Tattersall’s, or in the more select company of the clubs along St. James’s or strolling down Bond Street, or among the press of carriages thronging Hyde Park at the fashionable hour, he did return home on a regular basis in between these appearances to refresh or to change his attire.

But even his valet admitted, when questioned, that milord had been away from the premises a great deal as of late, which had given the estimable Hudson enough time to take a complete inventory of all his master’s cravats, shirts, and pocket handkerchiefs and order replacements for those that would not stand up to his lordship’s exacting scrutiny.

Too immersed in her own private despair to pay a great deal of attention to the erratic comings and goings of her brother, Cecilia remained unaware of this change in routine, until it slowly occurred to her that his absences evidenced more than just his usual peripatetic behavior. He was, in fact, around a great deal less than he ever had been before.

When she did eventually cross paths with him in the hall one evening, he wore the expression of someone with something of importance on his mind.

Since Neville never had anything of importance on his mind, this struck his sister as being highly unusual. Her suspicions thoroughly aroused, and her senses already on edge after Neville’s disastrous escapade with Lord Melmouth, Cecilia vowed to put aside her own concerns for a little while—at least until she had gotten to the bottom of whatever was consuming so much of her brother’s time and attention.

It did not appear to be gambling, for on more evenings than not, he went out attired in evening clothes, and the few breakfast conversations they did share were peppered with references to the Duchess of Wentworth’s rout or Lady Hailsham’s ridotto, the Countess of Roxburgh’s ball and the like. And during the day, according to the bills from the livery stable, he seemed to be hiring a carriage with great regularity.

Fiercely protective of her own independence, Cecilia did not like to pry into her brother’s affairs either by posing questions to him directly or, worse yet, questioning the servants—but there was nothing further to be gleaned by simple observation. When she eventually did steel herself to ask him one morning if all were quite well with him, he simply looked at her in surprise. “Yes, quite well, with the natural exception of having one’s pockets eternally to let. But we have Papa, among others, to thank for that. Why do you ask? Surely you are not worrying about Melmouth again? I am awake on every suit now, you know; I would not make such a fool of myself twice. I promise you.”

But after he had answered her question, he fell silent for such a long time, folding and unfolding his serviette in such an uncustomary fit of abstraction, that his sister remained unconvinced by his reassurances, in spite of his vehemence.

Cecilia told herself that there was little she could do except watch and wait, but somehow that seemed rather poor-spirited, not to mention ineffectual. However, she had no experience in such things. Undoubtedly, someone like the Earl of Charrington, who was accustomed to making his way in the world, would address the issue far more forcefully. But she was not going to think of the Earl of Charrington now. It had been bad enough seeing him at the opera, and though she had mostly succeeded in losing herself in the music, she had not succeeded in doing it to the point that she was not aware of his fiancée’s constant chatter or his obviously growing frustration with it.

Cecilia should have taken a great deal of satisfaction from thinking that a man who had destroyed her peace of mind was going to have his slowly eroded away over the years by a wife who continually demanded his attention. Instead, it made her sad to think of an energetic and clever mind doomed to boredom, and wasting away in the company of a woman who clearly had no use for intelligent conversation, if her idle gossip could even be called conversation.

Cecilia’s frustration with her own inaction, however, was extremely short-lived, for the very next day her infrequently present brother did not even appear at the breakfast table. However little Neville participated in the rest of his sister’s life, he could always be counted on to appear at breakfast, if for no other reason than to badger her for funds. Too undisciplined to pay attention to such a paltry thing as money, he had abdicated all the accounting—both their meager income, and most definitely their expenses—to his sister, who, in addition to paying the tradesmen, looked after the rents from Shelburne Hall and the tenants on their estate.

Neville’s absence galvanized her into action. She rang immediately for Tredlow, who somberly denied all knowledge of anything out of the ordinary where his lordship was concerned. But then Tredlow, who had subtly, but pointedly, made it known that he disapproved of his master’s self-indulgent life, was hardly the person to possess any useful information about Neville or his whereabouts.

Sedley, however, who worshiped his master’s sartorial expertise and his decided air of fashion, was far more forthcoming. “I believe his lordship has gone to visit friends in the country, my lady,” he volunteered when Cecilia questioned him.

“And yet you did not see fit to inform her ladyship of this interesting fact?” asked Tredlow, whose thunderous expression boded ill for the hapless footman.

“But I thought she knew,” the unfortunate man cast a look of desperate appeal in Cecilia’s direction.

“Do not fret, Sedley.” Cecilia sighed. “It is not your fault. Please go find Hudson for me, unless he too has gone to the country.”

“Oh no, my lady. He is most definitely here, my lady. I shall go and fetch him directly.” Happy to be released from the butler’s critical presence, Sedley hurried off in search of Neville’s valet.

And why am I not reassured by that piece of information ?
Cecilia asked herself as she waited for Hudson to appear.

The valet was as in the dark as the rest of them with regard to Neville’s whereabouts, though he was able to furnish Cecilia with the details of what he had packed in his master’s valise.

“And you did not think it odd that the master was not taking you along on this journey? And, even if you did not think it odd, it did not occur to you to mention it to my lady?” The butler’s face was positively wrathful.

“Never mind, Tredlow,” Cecilia injected in a placating voice. “I know that you mean well, and it is all rather out of the ordinary, but it is not the fault of these gentlemen that we do not know my brother’s comings and goings. He is a grown man, after all, with a perfect right to indulge in whatever queer start he wishes to indulge himself in.”

The butler’s derisive snort, though hastily suppressed, made it clear that he was not about to accord the latitude to his lordship that his ladyship did.

“And that is just what it is; a queer start, and nothing more.” Cecilia looked significantly at all three of them. “I thank you for clearing it up for me.”

But when they had left, she remained frowning thoughtfully at nothing in particular. Then, resolutely pushing her chair back from the table, she made a decision. “There is nothing for it but to pay a call on Miss Wyatt, unfashionably early though it may be,” she remarked to no one in particular.

As she put on her bonnet and pelisse, however, she thought better of it. She could not just call on a woman with whom she was barely acquainted, at what was—in London at least—the very crack of dawn. Possessing herself with as much patience as she could muster, she sent a note around to Russell Square, informing Miss Wyatt that she would call on her in a few hours’ time with a few final questions about the choice of frame for the lady’s completed portrait.

But when Cecilia arrived later that morning in Russell Square, she was greeted with the news that Miss Wyatt was not at home.

“Then would you be so good as to give her my card and ask her to call upon me at her earliest convenience. It is a matter of some urgency,” Cecilia insisted.

The butler, a far less imposing individual than Tredlow, and not particularly accustomed to dealing with titled females who carried themselves with an air of proud assurance, unbent so far as to confide to Miss Wyatt’s visitor that, though the young lady would undoubtedly be most sorry to miss her call, it was unlikely that she would be able to return the favor any time soon, having left not an hour ago to visit a sick aunt in the country.

That was all Cecilia needed to hear to confirm her worst fears. Neville had eloped with the Earl of Charrington’s fiancée, and it was all her fault for not having put an end to the affair in the first place, or at least expressed her misgivings to the earl and let him deal with the situation himself.

Now she was in the unenviable position of being forced to call upon a man to whom she had vowed never to speak again, a man whose very existence had caused her no end of misery and soul-searching.

And why that fact should suddenly make her feel more energetic and hopeful, more excited and alive than she had felt in weeks, was something that Cecilia was not at all prepared to think about, much less deal with.

Chapter Twenty-six

But deal with it she must—and the sooner the better, if the irresponsible Barbara and Neville were to be saved from their foolish and ruinous actions. Time was of the very essence, for the story was bound to leak out sooner rather than later—and once the story came out, there would be nothing that Cecilia or Sebastian could do to save Barbara’s and Neville’s reputations, except to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that the story was nothing more than a fierce and vicious rumor.

Not even bothering to return to Golden Square, Cecilia took a hackney directly to Curzon Street, where, to her infinite relief, she was admitted immediately and led to the library where she found Sebastian in his shirtsleeves poring over sheaves of what appeared to be financial reports and balance sheets.

For a moment, as she stood in the doorway, Cecilia told herself that she was mad to have come—madder still to think that he would even listen to a woman who not long ago had told him she hated him, and accused him of ruining her father’s life as well as her own. But as she hesitated, he looked up, and his smile, when he first saw her standing there—even though it was immediately replaced by a more guarded expression—was all the reassurance she needed.

Sebastian would know what to do. He would help her. In spite of what Neville had said, he was a man of his word—a gentleman who could be trusted to act honorably no matter what it cost him.

“Lady Cecilia.” He was instantly aware of the signs of strain in her face, the pallor of her complexion, the eyes that had turned to deep emerald instead of the usual warm hazel, the compressed lips, and the hands clenched tightly in front of her.

He was at her side in a second. “Please sit down and tell me what is troubling you.”

Relief flooded through her. She should have known he would recognize her distress the moment she entered the room and do his best to help her.

Cecilia bit her lip, not knowing quite where to begin. “It is all my fault. If I had been paying more attention—if I had spoken to Neville at the very outset—if I had stopped to think, or even mention it to you, this might never have happened.”

“What might never have happened?”

“Neville and Barbara.”

His blank expression was ample proof that she was being utterly and completely obtuse. “I beg your pardon. I am carrying on like a rattlepate when time is wasting.” Cecilia drew a deep steadying breath. “I am very much afraid that Neville and Barbara have eloped. Or, that is to say, I believe they have eloped.”

“Ah.” It spoke volumes for Sebastian’s trust in her that he accepted her opinion without question. “And what have you discovered thus far?”

She smiled gratefully at him. Most people—most men in particular—would have called her all sorts of a hysterical fool, but not Sebastian. He went straight for the facts. “Only that. Neville is on some errand so important, so critical to his welfare that he has missed breakfast for the first time in as long as I can remember. And after some questioning, his valet and the footman have volunteered that he has gone to visit a friend in the country—a plan that neither the butler nor I knew anything about. A plan that is ludicrous, considering my brother’s penchant, even compulsion, for being in London and nowhere else but London during the Season. Miss Wyatt, it also appears, has been called away to the country, in her case, to administer to an ailing aunt.”

“An ailing aunt? Why she has dozens of cousins who live closer than she to the only aunt she possesses, who is also widely recognized as being a hypochondriac of the worst sort. And, having put two and two together, have you also come up with a theory for their eventual destination?”

“No.” Cecilia admitted apologetically. “Having been responsible for this much delay, I felt it incumbent upon me to inform you as quickly as possible, so I have not had any opportunity for further research. I am so sorry. It is all my fault. I was worried that something like this might be happening, and I did nothing to stop it. I should have said
something,
done
something.”
She twisted her gloved hands together. “If only I had, then none of this would have happened.”

Sebastian took both her hands in a comforting grasp. “My dear girl, do not take on so. How could you possibly have known or even guessed such a thing?”