Amanda Scott (6 page)

“I’ll take her,” Ramsbury said gently. He had come up behind her, and he stood very close. When she turned, her face was but a few inches from his broad chest, and only consideration for Henrietta kept her from shoving the muff at him and running from the room. As it was, she had all she could do to keep up a stream of light conversation for the short time that passed before she had seen her guests safely out the door.

When they had gone, she could only wonder how it was that she had forgotten Ramsbury’s knack for turning her emotions on end merely by being in the same room with her. Somehow she could never seem to be with him without being irrational, furious, or otherwise agitated in spirit. She told herself firmly that she would simply have to do better.

S
YBILLA WAS READY TO
depart from Camden Place a full hour before Ramsbury arrived to collect her. This was despite the fact that she had tried on nearly every appropriate dress she owned before finally selecting a singularly attractive, long-sleeved, low-bosomed robe of apple-green poplin ornamented up the front with black velvet pea buttons and double edgings of narrow black velvet ribbon that matched the broad, diamond-buckled cestus confining her waist.

Had anyone dared to ask why she felt it necessary to take such care with her appearance, she would have denied having done so, insisting with complete sincerity that she had simply not known what she felt like wearing until she had seen herself in the right gown. As it happened, Gladys Medlicott, the trim middle-aged dresser whose duty it was to wait upon her, though outspoken enough when the spirit moved her, would not have thought of inquiring into her mistress’s motives. And despite the fact that Sybilla had replaced no less than five times the Persian diadem she wore as a headdress, unable to decide whether the brilliant crescent decorating the piece should be in the center or a little to one side, Medlicott remained silent, knowing better than to suggest that Lady Ramsbury was suffering from a case of nerves.

At last, after a long searching look in the mirror, Sybilla sighed and rose to her feet. “It will do, I suppose,” she said, picking up the pair of white French kid gloves that lay upon the dressing table only to set them down again in order to smooth and straighten for one last time the elaborate lacings and buttons of chenille cord that decked the robe’s plaited-cambric cuffs. Picking up her gloves again, she turned to Medlicott.

“I suppose it is too much to hope that Ramsbury will be before time,” she said. “If I sit for a full hour in this dress, the skirt will be sadly wrinkled.”

Medlicott blinked her light-brown eyes but said nothing.

Sybilla smiled ruefully. “Why don’t you tell me what a fool I’ve been for bullying you this past hour, Meddy?”

“I should never say such a thing, m’lady.”

“Much though you might long to do so,” Sybilla retorted. Then, immediately sorry for her tone, she added, “That was unfair. Though I rarely trouble to tell you so, I don’t know how I should go on without you.”

“You’d find out soon enough if I was so bold as to speak offensively to you,” Medlicott said as she turned to begin putting away the rejected dresses that lay in a heap upon the high, muslin-draped bed.

Sybilla chuckled. “That’s a fact. I don’t like being crossed, do I? And certainly not by those who wait upon me. I suppose, if the truth be known, I am nearly as high in the instep as Lady Lucretia.”

Medlicott glanced back over her shoulder. “A marchioness is supposed to be a bit high, m’lady. ’Tis expected.”

Sybilla laughed. “Well, I am not a marchioness yet, Meddy, nor likely to be, since Axbridge will doubtless outlive us all just to be spiteful.” The laughter faded quickly as the thought occurred to her that if Ramsbury were to divorce her, it wouldn’t matter to her if the marquess lived or died. Rallying, she added with a look of comical guilt, “There now, see what you’ve made me do. I’ve no business whatever to be talking in such a way of my papa-in-law to you—or indeed, to anyone. I believe I shall do better to take a turn round the garden while I wait. The exercise will put roses in my cheeks.”

“ ’Tis more likely to put dust upon them white satin slippers,” Medlicott said matter-of-factly. “You’d best take your cloak. The sun’s off the garden by now, and ’twill likely grow right chilly before the master arrives.”

“He is not your master,” Sybilla said, as she had a number of times in the past. But Medlicott only held out the dark green, fur-lined satin cottage cloak, and with a sigh, Sybilla accepted it, draping it over her left arm until she had pulled on her gloves. She did not bother to don the cloak until she had stepped outside onto the gravel path that led between the winter-bleak, yew-bordered planting beds and determined for herself that she required the comfort of its warmth. Thereafter, she amused herself with plans to improve the garden until Robert came out to inform her that Ramsbury had arrived.

She found him in the entry, pacing, having refused the porter’s offer of a seat on the uninviting, straight-backed chair against the wall. Since she was moving with her customary quick stride, her cloak billowed behind her, revealing the costume beneath to his critical eye the moment he turned to face her.

“Good God, Sybilla, you aiming to dazzle the Bath natives with a full display of London magnificence?”

“Certainly not,” she retorted, lifting her chin and meeting his gaze. “If I were in London, this dress would, I promise you, be made of the flimsiest, most transparent of gauzes.” She was pleased to see his jaw tighten and waited with pleasurable anticipation for his response.

He did not disappoint her, saying tersely, “I don’t doubt that for a minute. You adore displaying your wares to all and sundry, don’t you? How could I have forgotten?”

She lowered her lashes demurely. “You know me so well, Ned.” Listening closely, she was certain she heard his teeth grate together, but he said nothing, and by the time she looked up at him again there was a faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes. That look made her instantly wary, though his earlier annoyance had not done so.

“Trying to get a rise, Syb?” he asked gently.

“Certainly not,” she retorted, but she continued to watch him. “Do you mean to stand here talking nonsense all night, or shall we go?”

“We’ll go. The breeze is stiffening, and Jem won’t half like keeping the horses standing much longer.”

“And you’re afraid of your tiger,” she said, relaxing again.

He chuckled at that, and Sybilla realized she was glad to hear the sound. It had been a very long time since she had last heard it.

Because he had mentioned Jem Lassiter, his wiry groom, she half-expected to find his curricle at the curb, a possibility that neither surprised nor distressed her, but it was Lady Lucretia’s elegant landau that awaited them, with Jem perched in the coachman’s place. When Ramsbury handed her inside, she found herself feeling perfectly in charity with him, but the feeling lasted only until he had seated himself beside her and the carriage lurched forward. Then he said casually, “You must be wasting the ready these days, my love, if you insist upon wearing diamond diadems, as well as diamond buckles on your belt and shoes, all to impress the dowdy citizens of Bath.”

Her temper flared at once, but she managed to speak in an even tone. “You think me overdressed, no doubt, but I assure you that your aunt will be as fashionably dressed as though she attended a London soiree, and I do not intend to offend her by dressing casually to dine at her table. As to diamonds, the belt buckle is the one you gave me the first month we were married, and the others are only brilliants.”

“I stand corrected.”

“But you don’t apologize,” she pointed out, staring straight ahead, still holding her temper in check.

“No.”

He said nothing more, clearly waiting for her to pick up the gauntlet, but Sybilla was too angry to trust herself in an argument with him. The last thing she wanted was to arrive in Camden Place in a rage, and she was certain that if she were allow him to nettle her, on that topic or any related topic, such as her supposed loans from the marchioness, that was precisely what would happen, particularly since he had made it clear already that he would believe nothing she told him.

She would certainly never lower herself to beg him to listen, for he ought, in her opinion, never to have doubted her. Nonetheless, she was well aware that if he meant to keep making direct, or even oblique, references to her finances, it would not be long before she lost her temper. And when that happened, she knew from experience that any subsequent discussion would end in a shouting match. Very pretty behavior for an earl and his countess, she told herself, pressing her lips firmly together.

Ramsbury made no attempt during the rest of their short journey to engage her in conversation, and at Lady Lucretia’s tall house in Camden Place, he handed her down from the landau with formal courtesy and escorted her into the house. After giving their wraps to a footman, they found her ladyship, attired in an elegant, very fashionable gown of lavender crape, awaiting them in a pleasant silver-and-crimson drawing room. She was not alone, for Henrietta was curled comfortably in her lap and two other small white dogs occupied crimson velvet pillows on opposite sides of a tapestry hearth rug near the crackling fire. All three lifted their heads in silent greeting before tucking black noses into silky tails again and returning to their repose.

As Sybilla moved forward, a large, decrepit-looking tomcat stepped from beneath the claw-footed sofa occupied by Lady Lucretia and strolled with grave dignity toward the hearth. Sybilla watched with awe as he approached the pillow on the right and waited patiently until its occupant, with a small sigh of resignation, uncurled and moved to lie down upon the hearth rug. The cat stepped onto the cushion, turned around twice, sat down, and began the ritual ablution common to his species.

Lady Lucretia clicked her tongue in disgust. “That dreadful specimen believes he resides here. He has been put outside any number of times, but my people seem incapable of seeing that he stays out.” Then, before either of her bemused guests could comment, she turned to Sybilla and said bluntly, “I should like to know what that odd young man was doing in Royal Crescent today. ’Tis most unseemly that you should entertain gentlemen guests there, my dear—other than your husband, of course.”

Sybilla bristled, but it did not require Ramsbury’s hastily suppressed snort of laughter or the stern look he shot her to remind her that she could not speak her mind to Lady Lucretia. Keeping a tight rein on her temper, therefore, she said mildly, “I am persuaded that it is no odd thing for a lady of my station to attract a
cicisbeo
or two, ma’am. Mr. Saint-Denis would be the first to deny any other relationship between us.”

“To be sure, he would,” Lady Lucretia said crisply. “Any gentleman would. But you are a married lady living, as I am sad to say, separately from your husband. It behooves you to conduct yourself circumspectly, Sybilla. People talk.”

“There is nothing to talk about,” Sybilla said, feeling her careful control begin to slip. She gritted her teeth, took a deep breath, and added, “Mr. Saint-Denis is scarcely a rake.”

When Lady Lucretia seemed only too willing to delve more deeply into that possibility, Ramsbury interjected mildly, “If I do not object to Mr. Saint-Denis’s visits, Aunt Lucretia, surely no one else will do so.”

Sybilla stared at him in no little surprise, remembering only too well his original reaction to Mr. Saint-Denis, but Lady Lucretia was unimpressed. “If you dare to tell me that you do not object, young man, I shall be most astonished. I have known you since your first week of life, you will recall, and you have never seemed to me to be either a prevaricator or one who holds his possessions loosely.”

Sybilla protested, “I can scarcely be compared to a favorite childhood toy, Lady Lucretia.”

Once again, Ramsbury spoke before his aunt could do so. “Certainly not,” he said, sending Sybilla a mocking look. “Why, I recall that I was so strongly attached to a stuffed elephant I called Dickon that I’d have murdered anyone who tried to take it from me. Saint-Denis stands in no such danger.”

Despite the mockery, a note in his voice made her look at him rather searchingly, but his bland expression did not change.

“I believe it is time for us to dine,” Lady Lucretia said into the silence that followed. Removing Henrietta from her lap onto the sofa cushion beside her, she rose to her feet. “Just pull the bell, will you, Ramsbury, and I’ll tell them.”

At the table, the conversation turned to general topics, though Lady Lucretia, to no one’s surprise, mentioned more man once the fact that she disapproved of husbands living apart from their wives. However, since she was an avid correspondent and a frequent visitor in Royal Crescent, both of her victims were well accustomed to hearing her views on the subject and were able to parry her comments with the ease of long practice.

It was Sybilla who succeeded in diverting their hostess altogether, however. “Tell Ned about the wealthy Mr. Coates, ma’am,” she said. Then looking at Ramsbury, she added, “He is becoming such a figure of fun that he puts all the other Bath eccentrics to shame. And he’s been here less man a year!”

“Well,” declared Lady Lucretia with a chuckle, “he is amusing, I suppose, though I do not care for popinjays who sport diamonds on everything they wear and who drive up hill and down dale in curricles shaped like kettledrums.”

“Behind a pair of white bonesetters,” Sybilla put in with a grin. “And fancies himself an authority on Shakespeare, to boot. When someone dared to correct his recitation of a passage from
Romeo and Juliet,
he said he knew the whole play off by heart and rather thought he had improved upon it. Can you imagine?”

When Ramsbury chuckled, his aunt said gently, “You’ll soon be laughing out the other side of your face, my lad, for though no one calls him an actor, he is to perform his version at the Theater Royal in three weeks’ time. I shall invite Jane to visit me. It will be just the sort of entertainment she most enjoys.”