Gail Eastwood (7 page)

“The thing is, of course, you do not know my sister very well. If you did, you would see her actions in a very different light. I cannot blame you for protesting her behavior towards our guests; I am sure it must seem both callous and—and somewhat capricious. But she is not like that at all. Perhaps her idea about the hat
was
ill-advised—certainly it turned out to be so, did it not?”

She had circled away from where he was standing and now she turned back to face him. “Truly, she is sweet and generous, quite different from what people think. If only you could understand . . .”

But of course, how could he, when she could not tell him the whole truth? “Venetia does not do such things for amusement. How else are we to know which man would make a good husband? It is not merely our own happiness and future at stake, but a matter of the family fortune and lineage as well . . .”

“Do you not trust your father’s judgment?”

Ah, now how was she to answer that? Naturally a man would see it in such simple terms. But she could not expose her father’s failings any more than she could reveal her own affliction. What would Venetia say? She was so much better with words.

“Our father has allowed us a certain measure of choice. We take these steps precisely for that reason. There are many men who would, uh, take advantage of our situation. Venetia is only trying to make certain that we know what we are getting. She means no harm by it.”

“I see,” said Lord Cranford.

Vivian could not tell if he understood even slightly. At least she had tried. So much of Venetia’s behavior was for her sake, she could not bear to have him think ill of her twin.

The viscount came up to her and took her right hand. “I think you are the one who is sweet and generous to attempt to defend your sister. I will try to remember what you’ve said. I only hope you two are not looking for perfection to match your own, for you will never find it.” He raised her hand and kissed it.

Vivian sighed. “You are very kind.”
And so handsome, too.
If only he were eligible! He would make a fine husband for anyone. Well, anyone except for her. Any man who was patient, kind, and understanding enough to live with her infirmity should be spared from such a fate. Marriage was not the right future for her, no matter what her father or even Venetia believed. If only she knew how to convince them.

Chapter Seven

Venetia slept badly that night and was still out of sorts when she awoke the following morning. Breakfast in her room and the prospect of the day’s planned activities did nothing to improve her state of mind. Later, as she surveyed the simple blue walking dress her maid had laid out for her to wear to the morning’s archery competition, she wished she could spend the entire day alone.

Her bad mood had everything to do with the Viscount Cranford and very little to do with her own folly, at least in her own view. If Cranford had not happened along when he did, she thought, she most certainly would not have slipped when she threw her hat into the river, and she would not have needed rescuing. Perhaps Colonel Hatherwick would still have fished the hat out with his fishing pole, but perhaps not. If one of the other gentlemen had gone into the river after it, it would never have floated downstream to where the colonel was indulging his passion. She and Vivian might still have learned something of value about their suitors.

What made it so much worse was the indignity of having fallen in. What a foolish predicament to have gotten into! She felt grateful to Lord Cranford for rescuing her, and at the same time she resented him.

The fact was, she could not put the rescue out of her mind. The image of Lord Cranford’s striking eyes and the vivid sensation of his strong arms wrapped around her invaded all her thoughts. Her inability to banish them was ridiculous!

She had actually caught herself thinking that if he was indeed the blackmailer, perhaps marriage to him would not be so terrible. A harebrained notion! Only a heartless, unscrupulous blackguard would resort to such a tactic as blackmail. The man had to be morally bankrupt, not to mention avaricious and cruel! The fact that she considered such a marriage for even a moment proved how thoroughly Lord Cranford had confused her. She was sorry to think that Nicholas was such a poor judge of friends, but who else could be the villain? Lord Cranford was the only stranger among them. All the other guests had been handpicked by her father and Aunt Alice and were well-known among the
haut ton.

A light rap on her door brought her back to the present. Vivian entered, her face showing a perfect mixture of surprise, concern, and reproval.

“Netia! You are not even dressed. Aunt Alice is already gathering everyone. Are you feeling unwell? I hardly knew what to think when you did not wish any company for breakfast.”

How can I explain?
Venetia thought. She had never held anything back from her twin before now, but Vivian did not share her suspicions about Lord Cranford. Vivian had not felt the viscount’s arms around her, or looked up into those eyes at a moment when time seemed to stand still. How could Vivi possibly understand the confusion that was tormenting her?

“Where is Millie? Did you send her out? Shall I help you to dress instead?” Vivian asked. “I guess I had better. You are standing there as if you have forgotten how to move.”

Venetia sighed. Not sharing her trouble with her sister made her feel even worse. “I wish we could swap places, Vivi. You could be me and I could suffer an attack of ‘delicate nerves,’ as father calls it, and stay in my room all day.”

Of course she didn’t mean it. She said it unthinkingly, more to herself than to her sister, but Vivian looked stricken. “Oh, Netia. What a terrible thing to wish for! Anyway, I wouldn’t dare to take your place. What if I had a seizure?”

Venetia rushed across to hug her sister, her own frustrations swept aside. “I wasn’t serious, Vivi! You know I’ll always stand by you. If I could wish for anything, it would be that you could be cured. Or that the accident never happened, so we could have Mama back, too.”

If she was utterly, ruthlessly honest, Venetia had to admit that a tiny spark of envy did lurk somewhere in her dark side—a horrible, unattractive reality. Just occasionally she did wish she could have an excuse to get away from everything the way Vivian could when she suffered a seizure. Venetia had cast herself in the role of caretaker, but sometimes she grew weary of the part—indeed, sometimes she felt as though the weight of it might actually break her. When she was tempted to throw off that mantle, she would think of the burden that Vivian carried and knew that her own would never be so heavy.

“Here, do help me to dress,” she said to break the awkward moment. “I don’t know what is the matter with me this morning. This gown is a good choice for today, is it not? Just the right color—blue for ‘blue-deviled.’ Perhaps I am just discouraged that we have made so little progress in our investigations. We are no closer to discovering either our poet or our blackmailer than when we started.”

Vivian gathered up the walking dress and held it up at arm’s length. “Is that what was bothering you last night? You were very quiet again at dinner, and you were paying very little attention while we played charades and anagrams. Why, Netia, you did not even thank Lord Cranford for rescuing you from the river—I noticed that you did not go near him once all evening. ’Tis not like you to be so thoughtless.”

Was Vivian testing for a reaction? Did she suspect something? She was fishing very near the truth. “Did I not thank him?” Venetia said innocently, tying the ribbon closure of her chemisette and straightening the ruff at her neck. “Oh dear. I must make certain to do that—I never meant to slight him. Did he seem offended?”

“No,” Vivian answered thoughtfully. “He seemed preoccupied, although I’d say he seemed content to stay away from you.”

Venetia only paused for half a heartbeat. “Perhaps he was afraid I would need to be rescued again. Seriously, perhaps he is afraid to get close for fear we’ll discover he is the blackmailer. I wish we knew how to find out for certain. If only the servants had known something, or the note had yielded some usable clue. I wish we could discover something—anything.” She held out her arms to receive the dress.

“I wish that you would discover Lord Cranford is not the blackmailer, so we could begin to look for someone else.”

What Venetia really longed for at that moment was for Lord Cranford and the rest of the guests as well to disappear out of Rivington and her life altogether. She knew the chance of that, however. “If only we had some magic wishes,” she said. “I’d give anything for these two weeks to be over, or better yet, to have never begun.”

***

Venetia’s was not the only bad mood to be found in Rivington that morning. Gilbey, too, had spent a tormented evening and a restless night. He was certain that if even a hint of how he was feeling showed on his face, no one would dare to come near him or speak to him. He got through breakfast civilly, but now as he joined the other guests for the archery tournament, he wondered if putting a weapon into his hands would be wise. Suppose he just happened to mistake Lord Wistowe for one of the targets?

He had to admire the arrangements for the competition, despite his black mood. The range had been set up on a south-facing lawn at the far end of the walled garden, with targets at measured intervals at the bottom of the slope. Instead of the standard round targets, the figures of medieval knights in armor had been painted on canvas and attached to hay bales. Gilbey liked that—it suited his state of mind perfectly. If he wished he could even attach names to the figures; he would likely name one as Nicholas, who deserved a few shots for bringing him to Rivington in the first place. At the top of the slope a gaily striped canopy offered shade for the ladies, and bright pennants on poles fluttered in the breeze.

“Care to make a wager? Highest score, lowest score, most lost arrows, whatever you wish.” Lord Munslow’s voice penetrated Gilbey’s thoughts.

Gilbey turned around and saw Lord Chesdale gesturing at the other earl with his quizzing glass in hand. “Five pounds says you’ll lose your money no matter what you wager.” That could be nearly half a year’s pay for one of their servants, Gilbey reflected. Behind the two earls several other guests laughed.

Gilbey stepped away before they could try to include him in their wagering. Not to join in would be considered unsporting, but he hated to squander his resources. An altogether different danger was that Lady Norbridge might notice him standing alone, a fate he wished to avoid. Finding Nicholas seemed like a good idea until he saw him standing by the rack of bows waiting for the archers, with Lady Elizabeth close beside him.

“Are you skilled at archery, Lord Cranford?” Lady Caroline Sainsberry, the daughter of the Earl and Countess of Upcott, had quietly come up behind him. Gilbey rather liked Lady Caroline—although she looked fragile with her curly blond hair and porcelain skin, her conversation focused primarily on horses and sport. She was not loud and did not put on airs like the twins’ cousin Adela.

“I’m afraid not,” he said, feeling rather guilty at the lie. He had won his college archery cup for two years in a row, but he was determined to excel at mediocrity on this day. There would be no accidents, no dramatic rescues, nothing to draw attention or rile the legitimate suitors.

“A pity,” said the young woman. “It would be so lovely to see someone best that gaggle of popinjays.” She inclined her head toward the wagering gentlemen. “I thought you might be just the one to do it.” Forced to reconsider, she surveyed the other guests. “Hm, perhaps Lord Newcroft. He acquitted himself rather well in the games yesterday . . .”

She wandered away, leaving Gilbey a clear view of the twins as they arrived. They stopped for a moment, framed by the green archway of clipped yews that opened onto the lawn. One sister was clad in blue and the other in a deep rose color, but Gilbey had to think and observe them for an instant before he could tell which twin was which. Then he smiled.

Venetia was in blue. He could tell by the elegant way she stood, and by the way she held her head. Vivian tended to keep her hands behind her back and spent a good deal more of her time looking at the ground than her sister. Venetia could be counted upon to toss her head every so often in a way that reminded him of a spirited mare. He almost laughed when she did so just at the moment he thought of it.

Then there was something new, he had realized. Venetia preferred hats. Not for her the demurely closed bonnets that Vivian favored. The one she had thrown into the river yesterday had been a simple confection of cork and silver gray crepe, and this one, though narrower in the brim, was trimmed primarily with blue ribbons to match her dress. No foolish fantasies of flowers, fruit, or feathers for her. There was a single large feather, but it curled around the side of the crown quite sensibly, instead of sticking up like a weather vane ready to catch the slightest breeze. He suddenly realized that he was smiling in approval, and turned away.

What was he doing? Was this the way to get Lady Venetia off his mind? He didn’t want to admire her, like her, or be around her—he didn’t even want to see her.
And that is as much a lie as what you told Lady Caroline,
said a little voice in his head.

The call went up for the archers to prepare to shoot. Gilbey, his black mood restored, went over and snatched up arrows and a bow at random. Nicholas had gotten him into this coil, but he had only himself to blame for agreeing to help. If only he hadn’t! He would not now feel honorbound to stay. How much simpler just to leave! From what he had seen so far, there was no lack of supervision over the young ladies. Nicholas seemed so taken up by Lady Elizabeth he did not appear to be in any way concerned.

The archers took their places along a line marked in the grass and listened while the Duke of Roxley’s gamekeeper gave them instructions. Gilbey was intrigued in spite of himself. They were to shoot at each of the targets in succession, beginning with the farthest one, as if an enemy were advancing upon them. They would have six seconds to shoot at each target.

How does one defeat an enemy who is advancing from within?
Gilbey thought as he nocked his first arrow and positioned himself to shoot. A powerful force was at work in him, and he did not know how to stop it. His heart and mind refused to follow the course he had set for his life—to avoid the mistake his father had made.

Gilbey closed one eye and sighted along the shaft of his arrow, waiting for the command to begin. He had always liked the pressure of timed shooting—it added an element of excitement to an activity that sometimes seemed closer to science than sport.

When the command came, he reacted reflexively. In that initial instant, nothing existed but the bow, the arrow, the target, and himself. Inside his head a clock began to tick off the six seconds. With the smooth ease of long practice, he pulled and released.

“By Jove, you’ve nailed the fellow right through the heart,” Lord Amberton exclaimed.

Most of the first shower of arrows had missed widely.

“Who do you think you are, Cupid?”

More like that mythical cherub’s victim,
Gilbey reflected as he prepared his next shot. Surely he was the one who had taken a direct hit to the heart. The love arrow’s poison was spreading through his system even as he stood there trying not to think of Venetia watching him. He released again, and this time his arrow had no difficulty in missing the target altogether.

***

The competition continued until nearly noon, lasting through several rounds of standard target shooting, distance shooting, and even a novelty round using apples for targets. Gilbey shot erratically, as if his arrows followed the ebb and flow of his turbulent emotions. That suited his purposes, however, and he was in good company.

“The only thing I hit all morning was the topiary peacock just over the wall,” Lord Marchthorpe observed.

“Should have tried for one of the live ones,” said Lord Munslow. “Then at least you would’ve contributed some meat to the dinner table.”

“Fowl shot by foul shot, eh?” quipped someone.

“The birds were certainly at more risk from us than the targets,” Lord Whitgreave commented. “Given the skill we have exhibited this morning, it is a miracle the ladies were safe while watching from behind us!”

As the group dispersed and began to mingle with the miraculously spared ladies, the Marquess of Ashurst approached Gilbey.