Double Deception (30 page)

In the dimness of one of the stalls, Penelope gave a little squeal of delight and threw herself down beside Perry's spaniel Squeak, who lay, a picture of contented motherhood, watching over six plump little bodies squirming around blindly in the warm hay.

"Oh, Perry!" she breathed, for once quite deprived of her usual chatter. "They are wonderful. What are you going to call them?"

"I was hoping that you would be able to help me find the right names for them, Penny," Perry said with a smile.

"Oh, you really mean that?" The child's voice quivered with pleasure.

"Of course, I do, you silly goose. I know you are always full of good ideas, Penny, so consider that your particular job, will you?"

While Penny was engaged in crooning to the squirming puppies, Perry drew Athena outside. "Father told me all about Miss Rathbone," he said tersely, his young face unnaturally serious. 

Athena stared at him in alarm. Why had the earl considered it necessary to divulge his role in bringing Miss Rathbone to St. Aubyn Castle? she wondered. The man seemed to have a veritable compulsion to confess. Had he not unburdened himself of his less than honorable intentions towards herself two evenings ago? Confession was supposed to be good for one's conscience, but there were some secrets that might cause more harm than good if revealed unwisely. She wondered if Perry might not be cast down to learn that the Beauty had been paid to dazzle him. 

"And what did his lordship tell you about that lady?" she murmured, dreading the young man's fury at his father's deception.

But Perry surprised her.

"That she was not the lady I imagined her to be." He observed her keenly, as though gauging her reaction. "Did you know that, Athena?"

Athena was tempted to deny all knowledge of the affair, but her natural honesty forbade such prevarication. "I gathered from her rather immodest behavior that Miss Rathbone was not all she pretended to be, Perry."

"Father says she is an actress!" he said with withering scorn. "An actress masquerading as a lady here at the Castle. Why did you not warn me, Athena? I made an utter cake of myself."

He suddenly sounded so much like a little boy that Athena slipped her hand into his arm and drew him away towards the enclosed herb garden She was unsure as to exactly how much the earl had confessed to his son, so she proceeded with caution.

"Actually, she was rather good at it when you consider that she was not brought up in this style," she suggested casually. "And you did not make a cake of yourself, Perry. At least no more so than a hundred other boys your age, and many much older men, too, would have done under the circumstances."

"I am not a boy," he said quietly. "And there you go again, Athena, treating me like a son instead of—"

"Because that is how I think of you, Perry," she cut in quickly, not wishing to revive their former relationship. "Your father was right, you know. You would not have been happy married to me."

"That is exactly what Father said. Dashed if I know how he could be so sure. But was there no other way of... ?" He hesitated. "I thought he was just being autocratic again. He often is, you know."

"I know," Athena murmured in assent, curbing the smile that pulled at her lips. "But not this time, Perry. Perhaps he was not as diplomatic as he might have been, but he is your father, and he loves you dearly. He tried to warn you, and you would not listen."

"He
forbade
me to marry you," Perry said in an aggrieved voice. "And he called you a fortune hunter, Athena. Did you know that? I could not believe it of him."

"Yes, I know that, too," she responded, wondering just how much she should tell him. "And perhaps your father was right about that, Perry. I have come to see that I did not accept your offer for the right reasons, my dear. It is a very lowering confession to have to make." She paused to pick a sprig of fragrant rosemary, crushing the dark leaves between her fingers. "Your father understood that I wanted to secure my daughter's future. He merely objected to my using you as a safe haven."

They strolled in silence for several minutes, then Peregrine stopped and gazed down at her, his blue eyes troubled.

"Father deceived us both, you know," he said with difficulty. "He deliberately set out to break up our betrothal, but he never intended to hurt you, Athena. You may be sure of that. He told me so when we spoke last night. He holds you in very high regard, believe me."

"Did he tell you so?" Her heart gave an odd little lurch. 

"Of course. Father never intended to hurt either of us; you must believe that. Merely to make us see that our marriage would be a mistake. He never wished you to be exposed to... well," he hesitated, blushing a bright scarlet. "Father did not expect you to come upon me ... to witness that scene in the boat house. He came after you as soon as he could, but he was too late, of course. I am so sorry, Athena—"

He looked so miserable that Athena took pity on him. "It no longer signifies, my dear," she said kindly, giving his arm a squeeze. "Put the whole unpleasant episode out of your mind. I certainly have done so."

Perry gazed down at her in undisguised admiration. "You really are a trump, Athena," he said with boyish enthusiasm. "I only wish things had been different between us, because you would make a capital wife."

"Enough of that, my lad," she said sternly. "Or do you want your father to send for Miss Rathbone again?"

Perry let out a rueful laugh at this, and Athena breathed a sigh of relief that Lord St. Aubyn had not been tempted to confess the other role he had supposedly played in the Rathbone farce. She was still at a loss to decide whether or not the earl had intended to seduce her. Not that it signified any longer, she told herself firmly. Tomorrow she would be gone, and seduction, either intended or accidental, would be a thing of the past.

They had reached the end of the brick path, bordered by thick clumps of lavender bushes, when Perry suddenly turned to her, his old mischievous grin giving him the air of a young boy again.

"Father likes you, Athena," he said, his blue eyes merry. "Likes you rather more than he wants to admit, if you want my opinion. But then you probably know that already, unless I am off the mark."

Athena came to an abrupt halt and stared at him, her breath caught in her throat. Was it possible that the earl had confessed to that kiss in the dungeon? she wondered, her heart fluttering in panic.

"Did he tell you that, too?" she murmured, trying to keep her voice steady.

"Oh, no! He would never admit to something like that. He is not one for sharing his emotions, you know. But I have seen the way he looks at you, Athena." His grin took on a teasing cast. "Rather like the way he used to look at my mother."

Athena stood as if rooted to the damp brick path, her emotions thrown into chaos.

"He kissed you that night on the terrace, did he not?" Perry asked abruptly, a naughty twinkle in his eyes.

"No . . . yes. I mean, no," Athena stammered, unsure herself as to the exact nature of that truncated embrace. "Of course, he did no such thing."

"What a slow-top," Perry said irreverently. "One would think that..."

But Athena never heard whatever it was one would think, because a footman had entered the herb garden and trod towards them, causing her to relinquish her hold on Perry's arm.

"Sir Henry is asking for you, madam," the footman reported stiffly. "In the library, if you please," he added before he returned to the house.

Athena glanced apprehensively at the viscount. "I wonder what can be the matter?"

Perry startled her with an impudent wink. "Whatever it is, I wish you luck, Athena," he said misteriously, turning abruptly to amble back to the stable yard.

Athena stared after him, bemused and faintly uneasy. His remarks about his father had disconcerted her. Doubtless, Perry was mistaken, but his words continued to ring in her ears as she made her way into the house.

Rather like the way he used to look at my mother.

Sylvester stood behind his desk, staring absently at the long shadows cast by the declining sun on the lawn outside his window.

His mind was awash with riotous emotions, and his stomach clenched with an apprehension he had not experienced since the days before his marriage to Adrienne, when his father had attempted to dissuade him from following his heart. He had been a very young man at the time, but he had known his own heart, and the match had taken place in spite of his father's misgivings. Adrienne had brought him over fifteen years of happiness, and her unexpected death of influenza had left him emotionally frozen in its wake.

Sylvester had not thought life possible without her and had buried himself in his studies, which had been enough—or so he had imagined—to get him through the rest of his days in relative serenity if not contentment.

He had been wrong, of course. The illusion of serenity he had built up around himself had suffered a severe shock when Peregrine had brought his future bride to St. Aubyn Castle. Lady Sarah had suggested that history was repeating itself, but he had known—from the very instant he had looked into the widow's magnificent amber eyes—that his son had chosen the wrong woman.

With an audible sigh, he turned from the window, seeing again the small, defiant female who had faced him from across the huge desk during their first encounter. He had been deliberately belligerent, Sylvester remembered, and had spared her none of his simmering resentment at the unpleasant surprise Peregrine had sprung upon him by foisting an unknown widow onto the family. Perhaps that had been at the root of his dislike, he later suspected. The disconcerting discovery that his only son had made the momentous decision of choosing a wife without consulting his father had caused Sylvester to reconsider his relationship with Peregrine.

He had been shocked at the realization that, as a father, he had perhaps not done his duty by his son. Should he not have been in London with Peregrine this past Season? Should he not have taken on the responsibility of introducing the boy to London society instead of accepting Peregrine's assurance that he would be very comfortable lodging with one of his Oxford cronies?

Sylvester's blood ran cold at the thought of what other, far more damaging, indiscretions his son might have indulged in as a raw youth loose on the Town. London was teeming with brigands only too willing to lead an inexperienced youth—particularly one with rank and fortune—into all manner of unsavory situations. The choice of an unsuitable bride seemed a minor peccadillo by comparison, he had to admit, one which had been relatively easy to thwart.

The memory of just how easily he had indeed thwarted his son's mesalliance made Sylvester cringe. What had seemed like a simple and relatively harmless plan to drive a wedge between Peregrine and his betrothed had mushroomed into an ugly deception that had brought shame and unhappiness to the three of them. He himself felt doubly guilty because he had deceived both his son and Athena. Perhaps he had deceived himself as well, he mused wryly, for he had, in his arrogance, imagined he would emerge unscathed from the role he had chosen to play in the charade.

Sylvester sighed again as his thoughts returned to the previous evening. He had—or at least he believed he had—succeeded in setting things right with his son in their interview after dinner. In a show of confidence that had touched Sylvester deeply, Peregrine had refused to believe that his father had actually paid an actress to seduce him. When he realized Sylvester was not jesting, Perry had been stunned and not a little outraged at the deception, but surprisingly his first concern had been with Athena.

"You have hurt Athena far more than you know, Father," he had protested after the initial shock had worn off. "She was counting on me to give her and Penelope a secure future. I am as guilty as you for letting her down."

Sylvester felt a surge of pride at this evidence of unexpected maturity in a son he had too often dismissed as a child. There was nothing childish in Peregrine's anxiety about the welfare of a destitute widow and her daughter.

"It is fortunate indeed that she is reconciled with her father," Perry had said with a seriousness that Sylvester had never suspected he possessed. "But if she were to find herself at odds with that stepmother of hers—whom Athena once described to me as a jealous tabby—then you must promise me, Father, that you will help me settle her and Penny somewhere else. It is frightening for a gently-bred female to be alone in the world, you know," he continued, revealing a side of his nature that was new to his father. "Athena may appear to be strong, but she feared for her safety in London. I came close to fisticuffs with that scoundrel Midland at Vauxhall one evening for ogling her in that lecherous way of his."

Sylvester had heard of Gerald Ashley, of course. The Earl of Midland was notorious for his insatiable appetite for women and gambling. The thought of Athena's being subjected to that rakehell's disgusting attentions made his blood run cold.

"So I want your promise, Father, that we will offer her and Penny a home here at the Castle if she is unhappy at Rothing-ham," Peregrine had demanded, his tone brooking nothing less than absolute acquiescence from his father.

"After all," Peregrine had continued, obviously unaware of the effect his request had had on his father, "Aunt Sarah has convinced Mrs. Easton to take up residence here as her companion, so it would not be odd at all for Athena to stay with us, too. Would you not agree, Father?"

For a brief instant Sylvester experienced a surge of unmitigated pleasure at Perry's suggestion. He came close to confessing that he would like nothing better than to have Athena living not only under his roof but in his bed for the rest of her life. The words were already on the tip of his tongue before he repressed them. Such a confession must inevitably reveal his true feelings about Athena, and Sylvester was not quite ready to do so until he had spoken to Sir Henry. And until he had laid his heart at Athena's feet, he thought with an inward grimace of amusement at the maudlin direction of his thoughts.