Amanda Scott (2 page)

“Oh, I think about it,” he said grimly, “but I will not force myself on a woman who don’t want me, and I won’t tolerate having my home turned into a battleground every time my wife chooses to set her opinions against mine.”

“I thought,” said the marchioness naively, “that it was your mistress Sybilla set herself against, not your opinions.”

“Sybilla may have had reason to jump to certain unfortunate conclusions, but had she let me explain, matters might have been different. She never does so, however. We always end up talking at cross purposes. In any case, the topic is scarcely one for you to discuss with me.” His tone was uncompromising.

“Oh, now you do sound just like your father, Edmond. You really must have a care, my darling, or you will become like him, and that, you know, would never do, for scarcely anyone likes him. He is such an uncomfortable man to be near.”

“Then I must already be unconscionably like him,” the earl said irritably, “for my own wife don’t want to be near me.

“Goodness,” his mother said, wide-eyed, “her letters have been very brief, for of course she could not ask you to frank them for her, but I know she never wrote anything like that.”

He glared at her. “ ’Twas clear enough. She threw me out of my own house, did she not?”

“Did she?” She frowned. “I quite thought that she was the one who left, but it just goes to show how much a body misses by never going up to town, does it not?”

“Never mind that,” he said. “What is more to the purpose is that although I mean to get to the bottom of this at once, you must not send her another penny. Is that clear?” When she did not respond at once, he added gently, “I shall be angry if I find that you have gone against my wishes in this matter, Mama.”

She sighed. “Very well, I shan’t, but you must promise me that you will increase her allowance if she asks you to do so. Even if you think she is giving the money to Brandon, you must do it, for she will fret herself into an illness if she cannot help her brother. I know, for I frequently was very ill myself whenever your father refused to help my dear brothers.”

Since the earl knew perfectly well that his three maternal uncles were more expensive than an equal number of royal dukes, his sympathies in that regard were with his father. He folded his paper, laid it on the nearest table, and got to his feet, saying calmly, “I won’t promise anything, Mama, until I discover just what is going on.”

“Where are you going?” she asked anxiously.

“You know where,” he replied, bending to kiss her. “Bath.”

“Oh, dear, and you look so very cross. Do not be harsh with her,” the marchioness begged.

“She may count herself lucky if I do not strangle her,” he retorted.

“T
HERE,” SYBILLA SAID, LEANING
into the case of the highly polished mahogany pianoforte and pointing. “That hammer’s got something stuck to it. Hold the lid with both hands now, Sydney, for if you drop it on me, I shall never forgive you.”

The tall, slender, foppishly attired gentleman leaning over her sighed but obliged her by holding the lid up with both hands. “I shall no doubt break a fingernail or strain a muscle, Sybilla darling, but I shan’t repine, I promise you, so long as no one else observes my exertions on your behalf. ’Twould destroy a reputation I have been at some pains to cultivate. Moreover, I should like to point out to you that if I do drop this lid, you won’t be saying much of anything, since its weight would most likely render you unconscious. In any case, ’tis my belief that you would do better to repair your prop stick than to muck about with hammers and strings, and in a white muslin frock at that. What can you possibly know about the insides of a pianoforte?”

She straightened, pushing an errant strand of copper-colored hair out of her face with one hand and smiling at him with satisfaction as she held up a clump of collected dust in the other. “Only listen to the difference now, doubter.” But as she turned toward the stool, movement in the open doorway caused her to glance that way.

Her husband stood upon the threshold.

“Ned!” Her hazel eyes lit briefly with pleasure, but the look was quickly replaced by wariness when she noted his angry expression. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, stepping instinctively in front of Sydney, who regarded Ramsbury over her shoulder with visibly dawning awareness of his identity.

Glaring at him, Ramsbury snapped, “Your porter told me I should surprise you if I came straight up, Sybilla, and I see he was in the right of it. What the devil is that painted puppy doing here alone with you?”

“Mr. Saint-Denis,” she said calmly, “is not a painted puppy, and he was helping me fix the pianoforte. One of the keys was making a thumping noise instead of sounding its proper note.”

“There are persons, I believe, who attend to that sort of thing for a living,” Ramsbury pointed out. “This fribble can know nothing about it, in any case.”

Sydney straightened to his full height, which was not much less than Ramsbury’s six feet plus, and made a minute adjustment to his high, well-starched neckcloth with the tip of one slender finger. “I collect that you are Ramsbury, sir, and I daresay that my presence here does not look well to you, but I can assure you that I am neither fribble nor puppy, painted or otherwise. Nor, of course, can I claim to know a thing about repairing musical instruments, but as you see, my skill was needed for nothing more difficult than to prevent the lid from falling upon your ever-capable lady while she attended to the problem.”

Then, although Ramsbury’s lips tightened ominously, Mr. Saint-Denis stepped past Sybilla, extracting a metal-veneered snuffbox inlaid with gold from the pocket of his colorfully embroidered waistcoat. Holding the box out, he flicked the lid open with a neat, well-practiced gesture. “Two compartments, my lord, as you see, so that you may take your choice. Fine on the right and coarse on the left. The same mixture, of course, and—as I need hardly say—unscented.”

With a sound like a snarl, Ramsbury took a step toward him, but again Sybilla slipped between them, lifting her chin to glare up at her husband, who was some six or seven inches taller than she.

While Ramsbury glowered back at her, Sydney said plaintively over her shoulder, “ ’Tis very good snuff—a little hobby of mine, you know. Learned all about it when I visited China two years ago. Fascinating business. I grate the Morocco myself, and I promise you, I take very good care of all my snuff. Never allow it to become dry or to get too close to another mixture that might taint the essence or …” His voice trailed away to silence when the others paid him no heed.

Ramsbury, still glaring at Sybilla, appeared not to have heard him at all, but Sybilla turned and patted his shoulder. “Never mind, Sydney. Do not heed his bad manners or his temper, I beg you. Ramsbury only looks as though he eats people. He never really does so. He will be leaving soon, in any event, and then we may be comfortable again. And,” she added, turning back to her husband, “there is no use looking at me as though you would like to strangle me, Ned, because that look has never impressed me as much as it seems to impress others. Indeed, it has always seemed a great pity to me that you lacked an older sister to smack you from time to time when you were young.”

“I doubt that she would have been allowed to smack me,” he said, rising to the bait as he always seemed to do with her.

“No, that is very true. You were always petted, were you not, just because you were the heir. Poor Charlie, though he occupies the same position in our family, was never allowed to think so highly of himself. What with Papa caring not a whit about such things and Mama spending most of her time in bed because of being with child again almost immediately afterward, Charlie was left to me and the nursemaids to raise.”

“I doubt, even as meddlesome as you are, Syb, and as indispensable as you believe yourself to be to this household, that you had much to do with the raising of Charlie at that age or any other,” Ramsbury said scornfully.

“You are perfectly right,” she agreed again, “for of course I am only a year older than he is. And despite Mama’s seeming always to be in the family way, you know, Mally did not come along until two years after Charlie. And dearest Brandon two years after that.”

“Your family history must always be of considerable interest to others, my dear,” he said softly, “but it is not necessary to repeat it to me. I know it only too well. Mr. Saint-Denis,” he added, turning to that gentleman, “I am persuaded that you will forgive me if I request some moments of privacy with my wife.”

“Certainly,” Sydney said, snapping his snuffbox shut again and snatching up a curly-brimmed beaver and his gloves from a nearby chair. Then, nothing daunted, he turned to make a graceful leg, first to Sybilla and then to Ramsbury. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lord. We must take a hand of piquet together one evening.”

Ramsbury’s only response was a sardonic twist of his lips, but the moment Sydney had shut the door, he turned on Sybilla. “You’ve shot your bolt this time, my girl. That man’s a certifiable lunatic.”

“Don’t be absurd, Ned. Sydney is one of my most faithful
cicisbei,
and I won’t allow you to abuse him.”

“I’ll say what I please, Sybilla. Though you generally choose to ignore the fact, you are still my—” He broke off abruptly when the door opened again to admit a footman, whose alert expression promptly grew wooden when the earl’s head whipped around. “What the devil do you want, Robert?”

Nothing daunted, the footman turned calmly to his mistress. “Would m’lady care to have refreshment served?”

Ramsbury snapped, “No, she would not.”

“Yes, please,” Sybilla said sweetly. “I believe that his lordship’s temper would be the better for a composer. Do you bring him a glass of my father’s best claret, if you please.”

Ramsbury opened his mouth and shut it again, and when the footman had gone, Sybilla smiled and sat on the piano stool. “I thought you would not refuse a glass of Papa’s claret, Ned.” Without waiting for a reply, she placed her hands at the keyboard and played a few chords, filling the room with the rich full tones of the pianoforte and showing the considerable skill for which she was accustomed to be much praised.

Ramsbury moved past the curved front of the pianoforte to look out the window, making no attempt to interrupt the music, but Sybilla did not play for long. When she had heard enough to satisfy her that there was nothing further amiss with the instrument, she settled her hands in her lap, looked up at him, and said, “That is much better. It sounded dreadful before.”

“No doubt.” He returned her gaze then for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before he said abruptly, “Look here, Syb, I’ve got to talk to you. I’ve found out, you know, and it’s no good. I can’t allow you to—”

“Can’t allow me, Ned?” Her firm chin lifted obstinately. “You have pretty well given up any right to allow or not allow, I should think. Not only did you behave badly before we decided we did not suit, but you have gone your own route since, doing as you please, caring for naught but your own pleasure and perhaps that of that harpy, Fanny Mandeville—”

“We will leave Lady Mandeville’s name out of this discussion,” he said harshly. “You were mistaken—”

“Mistaken?” Sybilla’s arched brows rose in disbelief. “There was little room for error, if you will recall. You were quite alone with her when I walked into that room. Your arms were twined around her, and—”

“I have said we will not discuss her,” he cut harshly. “I came here today to demand an—”

“Demand?” Sybilla shook her head. “I no longer recognize your right to make demands of me, Ned. You gave up that right when you left our home—”

“I did not leave by choice, for God’s sa—”

“You left,” she insisted, “and you have done nothing since then to demonstrate concern for my well-being or—”

“Leave it!” He took a menacing step toward her, but she did not flinch. Even when he clenched his fists, she did not react but only continued to gaze at him with an air of curious interest. “Damn it, Syb, that look alone is enough to drive a man to a frenzy. If I were a violent sort …”

“You put your fist through our bedchamber door once, as I recall,” she observed reminiscently.

He growled, but although the temptation to shake her showed clearly in his expression, he restrained himself, and when Robert entered again a few seconds later, accompanied by a maidservant carrying a tray, Ramsbury was able to turn back toward the window with as much dignity as if what they had been discussing had been of no particular moment.

Sybilla gestured toward the mahogany Pembroke table in front of the fireplace, and the footman directed the maidservant to set the tray upon it.

“Will that be all, m’lady?” he inquired.

“Yes, thank you.” She watched Ramsbury, who had not moved from his place near the window until the servants had gone. Then, thinking she would do well to calm him a bit if she was ever going to find out what was wrong, she said quietly, “Perhaps you would like me to pour your wine for you.”

“I’ll do it,” he said, rousing himself from his thoughtful pose and moving toward me table. “We have to talk, Syb.”

“About what? You said you had found me out, but I don’t know what you can—”

“Don’t,” he said, looking directly at her. He held the decanter in one hand and his glass in the other, but he paused now without pouring. “I know, I tell you, so it is of no use—”

“But there can be nothing to know. I’ve scarcely laid eyes upon you, after all, in a twelvemonth, and even when I was in London before Christmas—”

“The less said about that, the better,” he muttered. “Your behavior then certainly left a great deal to be desired.”

“Why, whatever can you mean?” she asked demurely, only to add immediately and on a gurgle of laughter, “No, no, do not look at me like that. I will agree that had we still been living together, my little flirtations—”

“Little?” But his expression relaxed, and he poured his wine at last, then gestured toward the tray. “Do you want a cup of this tea Robert brought you?”

“Yes, please.” She got up and moved to sit in one of the pair of gilt-wood Hepplewhite chairs flanking the table. “Why is it that we can never talk together without quarreling, Ned, as we were used to do? Do you remember how it was when I was in London with Aunt Eliza before she died?”