A Rebel Without a Rogue (38 page)

She clenched her hands in her lap, wishing the kid of her gloves did not protect her palms from the sharp bite of her fingernails. Physical pain could often distract from pain of the emotional sort.

“Aunt, your offer to keep me in London was all that was good and kind. But my father’s health truly did benefit from my company. And missing the rest of my Season did not strike me as so great a loss. As you yourself noted, so few of the young men that year seemed inclined to marry,” she hurriedly added at the sight of Aunt Allyne’s frown.

“Ah yes, you are quite right,” her aunt replied, apparently appeased. “Only three marriages of any consequence in the year ’19, and only five the year after, all involving only the most handsome gels. And with your looks. . . of course, beauty is as beauty does, dear child. But perhaps it was better to wait. I find you in far better countenance now than when you were only seventeen.”

Sibilla turned to stare out the window, determined to avoid the pity in Aunt Allyne’s eyes. She’d long understood that she would never embody the slim, fair, fashionable ideal held by the
ton
, but her aunt’s forthright summary of her charms still stung. Shorter than the average, with eyes of the plainest brown and straw-colored hair that did not so much curl as wildly corkscrew in all directions, her face would hardly turn even the most shortsighted of male heads.

But the only male head she needed to turn during this Season was the one belonging to her eldest brother, Theo Pennington, the new Viscount Saybrook. And turn it not in her own direction, but toward his duty. Theo had little liking for politicking, but surely her offer to act as his political guide would convince him to follow in Papa’s footsteps and speak in Parliament for reform. Hadn’t her father, after all, chosen to share with her, rather than any of her older brothers, all he had known about the House of Lords? And wouldn’t Theo, who had never shown the slightest interest in political goings-on, need her to smooth his way into Whig circles by acting as gracious hostess, rather than marry her off as expeditiously as possible?

Her heart began to pound at the thought of seeing her brother again. Even though Theo had long been the brother to whom she felt the closest, since their father’s passing—no, since that last bitter parting shortly before it—they had each acted as politely as strangers the few times they had crossed paths. But she must make him understand why every peer who believed in a temperate reform of the government was vitally necessary if England did not wish to see the grievances of the poor erupt in riot or revolt. Surely then he wouldn’t allow his antipathy to politics, or their personal disagreements, to stand in the way of his duty.
 

Still, perhaps it would be wise to recruit an ally or two.

“Do you know if Theo is acquainted with Lord James Dunster, son of the Marquess of Tisbury?” Yes, and what other aristocratic names appeared most often in the Parliamentary Intelligence column of the
Times
? “Or Mr. Harold Hardwicke, cousin to the Earl of Trent?”

“Oh, I
am
pleased to see you finally taking an interest in potential suitors!” Aunt Allyne’s wrinkled face creased with a smile. “But do not worry yourself; Theodosius and I will choose to whom you should be introduced. Now, my Bible is in my valise, but I do have Miss Hatfield’s
Letters on the Importance of the Female Sex
to hand. Shall we take up from where we left off?”

Ah, the enervating strictures of Miss Hatfield. Something between a groan and a sigh escaped Sibilla’s lips.

“Now, now, no need to take on so, my child.” Aunt Allyne gave Sibilla’s knee a kindly pat.
 
“The Season will soon start in good earnest, and you will have your chance to meet the most eligible
partis
.”

Heaven help her if her plan failed, and she must accede to her aunt’s idea of an eligible marriage partner! She could picture him now, declaiming her aunt’s favorite commonplaces as if they held the wisdom of the ages:
An idle brain is the devil’s shop, Miss Pennington. You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, Miss Pennington. A little learning is a dangerous thing, Miss Pennington, especially for an unmarried lady with an unseemly interest in politics. And when you are married, surely you’ll think the same. . .

The coachman’s “Hollah!” brought the disagreeable litany to a blessed halt. Berkeley Square, at last. Before a groom could drop from the seat above or a footman scurry from the house beside, Sibilla opened the door of the carriage. One nimble jump and she was on the pavement; three quick steps brought her to the portico-covered door.

“My dear girl, have a care! Lady Jersey resides at number 38, and you would not wish to risk making a poor first impression on one of Almack’s most esteemed patronesses!” Aunt Allyne called from the door of the carriage.
 

Paying no heed to her aunt’s chidings, she pushed past the footman and stepped through the just-opened front door.

At last! Pennington House, the London residence of the Viscounts Saybrook for the past sixty years. The memory of the last time she had been here, that tantalizingly brief month during the spring of her seventeenth year when she and Papa had talked politics and hatched plans, debating into the wee hours over potential suitors, made her smile. How differently the words “When you are married” sounded when uttered by Papa!

But then Lord Saybrook had grown sick and died, and all their plans for forging a marital alliance that would also forward the cause of political reform fell by the wayside.
Yes, I’ll see that Theo takes up the cause in your stead,
she’d whispered by her father’s deathbed.
And I won’t forget it, either. Not like Jane Carson, and Cissy Hubbard, and the others who abandoned politics as soon as they married.
Husband and household, bedding, breeding, and babies, all left wives far too little time for any pursuit beyond the domestic. No, far better to remain right here, at Pennington House, working by her brother’s side, than to risk taking on a husband.

“Theo! We’re here!” She raced up the main staircase in a manner certain to earn her the label “unladylike” in most
ton
households. Shedding her pelisse and muff, she rushed down the corridor, opening doors right and left. “Theo?”

Dust shrouds had been removed from the furniture, and the windows, recently cleaned, gleamed with light. But each room felt empty, unlived-in; the smell of polish, not people, greeted her at every door. Had she truly expected Pennington House would still hold her father’s scent, tobacco and sunshine and starch, even after it had vanished from the house where he had died?

“Miss? Please, allow me.” A tall man in Saybrook livery bowed, then opened the only door on the corridor that still remained closed.

Her brow wrinkled, then cleared. “Hill, isn’t it?” At the footman’s answering nod, she added, “Please, Hill, where might I find my brother?”

The footman smiled. “Remember me, do you, then, miss? Ah, your father’s daughter, to be sure. You may find Master Benedict in what we are to call his
studio
, in the attic next to the maidservants’ room. Master Kit has taken lodgings in Duke Street, I believe.”

“But I’m looking for my eldest brother. Don’t tell me that sluggard is still abed?”

She hesitated at the threshold of the room Hill revealed. The music room, with its overstuffed armchairs and gleaming pianoforte, purchased by Papa just before he brought her to town that last time. How he loved it when she played just for him. Her fingers begin to trace out the notes of his favorite ballad against her thigh.

She jerked them to a halt, her hands clenching.
 

“My apologies, miss. I haven’t seen Lord Saybrook these many months.”

“Months? What, is he not residing at Pennington House?”
 

Hill started, his eyes growing wide. “No, miss.”

Chagrin must have made her exclamation sharper than she had intended. But to come all this way, and discover Theo not even here. . .

Sibilla pressed a palm, hard, against her sternum. Had she been the one to drive him away, with her cruel words and stinging accusations over their father’s sickbed?

“Thank you, Hill. That will be all,” Sibilla said, dismissing the servant before he could catch sight of the tears threatening the corners of her eyes.

Descending the staircase at a pace far more sedate than she’d taken while climbing it, Sibilla made her way back to the entrance hall.

“Oh, my dear girl, what luck. Not a soul on the square witnessed your untoward flight.” Aunt Allyne juggled a bandbox, a book, and her reticule by the front door. “The dear Lord looks after his orphans and strays, so he does. Now come, meet Bridget, the abigail I’ve—”

“Aunt,” she interrupted, “Hill tells me Theo is not living here. Why did no one inform me?”
Papa gone, and now Theo, too?

“Ah, brothers,” her aunt answered as she allowed Hill to most properly divest her of her outer garments. “Such provoking creatures! They do say that sisters are ever so much more obliging. Even if your father had been my brother rather than my nephew-in-law, I doubt he would have listened to my advice and agreed to allow you to remain in London rather than traipsing down the countryside to nurse him. After your mother died, Saybrook always did like to keep you close to pay him court. But your nursing didn’t help much in the end, though, did it, my child? ‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ just like my own dear Mr. Allyne, may they both rest in peace.”

Sibilla bit her lip, hard, determined not to allow her grief to show. It would only lead to another of her aunt’s sermons on accepting death with perfect resignation to the will of the Almighty.

“But just think, my dear,” Aunt Allyne said, linking her arm through her niece’s. “Once you are married, you’ll no longer be troubled by such trying creatures as brothers.”

One hundred and forty-eight.
One hundred and forty-eight!
 

Sibilla bit back a most unladylike curse. Surely she’d be able to persuade Theo to take up his parliamentary duties long before the count could reach a thousand. . .

Across Mayfair, in the London residence of the Earl of Milne, Sir Peregrine Sayre, too, was counting. The number of acres one needed to enclose to feed the average herd of sheep. The number of men brought into the Guildhall Justice Room each week for thieving, and the number of those who were convicted and transported. And, most recently, the number of men who had voted against the disenfranchisement of Grampound, the first move toward reforming representation in Parliament. And, of course, the number of favors Lord Milne would need to provide to reward them for said support. Praise heaven he’d finally been able to convince Milne to champion the bill, despite the earl’s conservative leanings. One fewer time he’d have to compromise his own principles just to keep in his patron’s good graces.

Per sighed, laying down his quill to rub the tension from between his brows. Such glorified accounting hardly did justice to his skills as a politician, garnered over six years of working with the earl. But Milne had seemed unduly anxious of late. Best to humor him, especially when he was so close to persuading the earl to support his candidacy for a seat in the House during the next election. If Per had to count all the fleas on all the rats in all the alleys of London to set Milne’s mind at ease, then by God, count fleas he would.

Before Per could take up his quill again, a long arm clad in the richest superfine reached over his shoulder to snatch it up off the desk.

“Still totting away, my good fellow? If one didn’t know any better, one might believe my father ran a countinghouse. How will I ever live down the shame?”

Viscount Dulcie, Lord Milne’s scapegrace of a son, perched on the edge of the desk, twirling the stolen pen between nimble fingers. With others, Per’s natural reserve held him aloof, but somehow he could never stand on ceremony with the irreverent lord.

“Do my ears deceive me? Or did I truly hear the word
shame
emerge from your lips? Surely Lord Dulcie has no acquaintance with the sentiment?” He made a lunge for the fluttering quill, but Dulcie danced away, just out of reach.

“How could I not feel shame when all the world blames me for your absence from society? If you do not take steps to address the gossip, my good name will soon lie in tatters.”

With a swift feint, Dulcie darted in, attempting to tap the quill against Per’s nose. But this time Per was quicker, catching the smaller man’s arm and turning it behind his back.
 

“What has your good name to do with my refusal to waste my time on parties and routs?” Per had cultivated a reputation for indifference with the ladies of the
ton
for a purpose and had little interest in abandoning it without good reason.

 
“Beast! Give over or you’ll rip the seam. Here, have your dratted pen, for all the good it shall do you.”

He gave a grunt of satisfaction as Dulcie let the feather drop from his fingers.

“A bully as well as a recluse!” Dulcie accused, rubbing at his arm in an aggrieved manner, as if Per had actually done him an injury. “No wonder they can’t stop chattering about you. Ladies will hanker after the enigmatic, violent fellows, fools that they are. And then they have the gall to blame me when you ignore them.”