Sybill (2 page)

This was no primitive, country hideaway. The furniture was of the finest design and construction. Beneath her feet was the richness of a pale green carpet. Her eyes rose to see the pattern of plaster emblems on the ceiling. The one in the center of the huge expanse matched one carved into the oak mantel of the fireplace. She guessed it was the Foxbridge family crest.

Going to the hearth, she held out her hands to the warmth. They were stiff from the cold ride, which had commenced before dawn. She looked at the painting above her. It was of a woman dressed in the style of two decades before. She was a striking woman, although not classically beautiful. Her nose was too long and her eyes a bit too feline. The smile on her lips suggested secrets she would not reveal.

Sybill recalled Lord Foxbridge was a widower. This may have been his wife. Searching her memory, she tried to think of what her father might have said about children. She could remember nothing. Her father had had little interest in his friends' domestic arrangements. His conversation had consisted primarily of the gossip of the court.

Noise came from beyond the door. She listened as Kate talked to the butler. From the time the invitation arrived, her maid had been enthusiastic. Why, Sybill could not guess.

When she saw the latch lift, she pasted a false smile on her lips. Her fingers played nervously with the cord at her waist. Realizing what she was doing, she dropped it. She must not show how upset she was by the changes in her life.

“Miss Hampton?” asked a strange man as he entered the room. “Welcome to Foxbridge Cloister.”

Despite herself, she stared at him. This was not Lord Foxbridge. The man was decades younger than the lord. She wondered if he was a son. His clothes were of finer quality than those the butler wore and of a vibrant blue.

From the polite smile framed by his neatly trimmed beard and mustache, her eyes rose to his. They were the darkest eyes she had ever seen and were filled with an expression she had learned to recognize and despise.

It was pity.

Rage filled her. She had not grown accustomed to pity from those who had no intention of speaking to her again as an equal. When the men acted as if they were doing her a favor by asking her to be their mistress, she discovered she was an outcast from the society which once welcomed her. From a stranger, it was even more degrading to be shown that everyone knew she was begging for the roof over her head.

When she did not reply, he walked toward where she stood. As she remained stubbornly silent, his ebony eyebrows twitched with what she feared was amusement. She had thought pity was the worst thing she could see in a man's eyes. She had been wrong.

Taking her fingers, he bowed over them correctly. He did not raise them to his lips. The black hair near her face was so sable it glowed in the candlelight with blue highlights.

“Miss Hampton, I
am Trevor Breton, his lordship's aide and overseer of the estate. He asked me to greet you.”

Instantly, she gasped, “He is ill?”

His smile faded at her reaction. Sharply he demanded, “Do you act so worried because of compassion for a man you have not met in years or because you have no place else to go but into service?”

Sybill pulled her fingers from his. Until now, as she regarded the raven fire in his eyes, she had not noticed he continued to hold her hand. She went to the hearth. Putting her hands out to the fire once more, she tried to rub some feeling back into them. Even with her back to him, she could feel his furious glare at a point directly between her shoulder blades. Why would this man react so crudely to a simple question? He was a servant. She was a guest. He had no cause to treat her like this. Perhaps if she ignored him, he would recall his place and apologize.

“Well?”

“I do not think I owe you an explanation,” she said turning to face him.

She wished he was not so handsome and not dressed so well. Unlike the dandies she had seen, this man wore his breeches in a narrow style. His doublet was decorated with sedate, black trim. No ruff widened his collar, which had only a hint of lace to match that at his cuffs. From his head to the tip of his leather shoes, he was the picture of a well-favored servant.

“No?” he asked in a more conversational tone. The tightness of his lips warned her that his opinion had not changed. As he leaned on the back of one of the chairs, he regarded her steadily. “Are you going to answer me?”

“I have not heard an answer yet to my question. Is his lordship ailing?”

Grudgingly he replied, “He isn't as hale as he was. This late spring has proven very difficult for him.”

“Have the chest pains returned?”

“You know of that?” He was clearly surprised.

Sybill was not going to give him more reasons to act as if she were a leper. Even if he wished to be a boor, she would remain a lady. In a gentle voice, she said, “Mr. Breton, Lord Foxbridge was my father's friend. He corresponded with Father regularly. After his last visit three years ago, he infrequently wrote to me as well. I know his health has not been as he would have wished since he was ill during the Christmastide.”

Trevor hid his surprise from her, but was unable to do the same from himself. Not once had he suspected the packets going to the barristers in London contained letters to a young woman as pretty as this one.

From the time he learned that Lord Foxbridge had acquired a ward whose father left her without a farthing, he suspected it would be a fortune seeker coming to Foxbridge Cloister. It would seem Lord Foxbridge had a humanitarian reason for offering his home to a woman who hardly appeared to be a waif.

His knowledgable eyes calculated the worth of her frock. Not as fancy as the portraits he had seen of the court while on an occasional trip to the capital city, but of higher quality than those worn by the women of the west. The somber color reflected her status as the bereaved, but he wondered how much she mourned her spendthrift father.

His gaze moved from her clothes, which flattered her slender form, to her face. Under hair nearly as dark as his own were eyes of the blue of the sea at sunrise. Despite himself, his eyes settled on her soft lips, which he was sure had welcomed those who called at the house on the Strand. He wondered how averse she would be to continuing her London life here.

Mentally, he shook himself. They did not need a woman like Sybill Hampton in Foxbridge Cloister. Her dainty prettiness and background would insure trouble among the men of the Cloister. He must send her away.

“Pardon me?” he asked when he realized she had spoken.

She moved toward him, the fullness of her skirt swishing softly against the nap of the carpet. He had to fight his urge to either back away or close the distance between them more rapidly. Viciously he fought back both feelings. Trevor Breton was not accustomed to being attracted to a woman so strongly on such a short acquaintance. He did not want to change that precedent, especially with this woman.

“I asked if I might see Lord Foxbridge.”

“Of course, Miss Hampton. He is anxious to see you.”

Motioning for Sybill to precede him, he pointed toward the staircase leading to the second floor. She did not have to look at the sternness of his face to know he did not want her in Foxbridge Cloister. A laugh bubbled within her, but she did not allow it to escape. She wondered what he would say if she told him she felt exactly the same.

Her hands slid along the fine, oak banister. Although the additions to the original monastery had been completed less than a decade ago, the massive building appeared to have been in its setting for centuries. As she walked up the stairs, she noted the bits of art displayed in the niches along the stairwell.

She recognized a small statue which once rested on a mantel in her house. When she had noted it missing, she had been ready to question the staff to determine what happened to the marble Eros. Her father had vetoed that plan. Now she understood why. He must have sold it in order to finance their lives in London. Not for the first time, she wondered why her father had chosen the lifestyle he had.

At the landing, she paused as she looked out the large, circular window to see the somnolent gardens. She turned to Mr. Breton. “I see the window has not arrived yet.”

He did not have to ask which window she meant. Many knew the lord had ordered a stained glass window with the family crest. Only the unease of the rumored war with Spain had made it impossible to have it delivered before the cold weather.

His eyes were on a level with hers. The smoky line of his eyebrows came together as he saw her expression. Such innocence there was in her words. Far too much for the daughter of Alfred Hampton. He could not accuse her of perfidy when she had done nothing yet. It would be best if she did not suspect his concerns. Carefully he kept his voice calm as he stepped up next to her.

“It has arrived, Miss Hampton. As soon as spring decides to stay, we will have it set in place.” He put his hand on her arm. “If you please, Miss Hampton.”

She gasped and stepped away from his fingers, which had sent a bolt through her. There was no time to think of her reaction. One shoe slipped off the newly polished stone steps. With a cry, she fought for her balance.

Strong arms captured her. She gripped them to assure herself she would not careen down the stairs to certain injury. Pressing her face close to her savior, she did not care if it was the officious Mr. Breton. Her close brush with disaster shook her to the depths of her soul.

“Miss Hampton?” The anger she had seen on his face was reflected by the shortness of his demand.

Cautiously she stepped away. It was obvious he did not want her near. Despite the coldness of his attitude, she did not move without forethought. She was careful to keep her back to the wall. Her voice trembled when she spoke. “I'm fine, Mr. Breton. Thank you.”

He put his arm around her shoulders. When she started to pull away, he tightened his grip on her. “Be sensible!” he snapped. “You nearly fell. Let me help you up the stairs. Lord Foxbridge would not be pleased if his ward arrived bruised.”

“Don't call me that!” she cried at the term she hated more than anything else.

It was a slap in the face, an insult, a reminder she could not survive without Lord Foxbridge's charity. She ran up the stairs, away from Mr. Breton and the word that reminded her of her distressing state. When she reached the top of the few steps remaining, she did not pause, although she had no idea where she was going. She heard Mr. Breton calling for her to wait. Headstrong, in the manner which had earned her too many reprimands, she did not listen.

Her eyes scanned the doors, but all were closed. No signs suggested what might lie beyond them. She did not care. She wanted nothing to do with Foxbridge Cloister. She wanted to go home where strangers presided over her table and slept in her bed.

A door opened nearly in her face. With a gasp, she took a step backward and collided with Mr. Breton, who had been pursuing her. His arms encircled her waist as he kept her from falling once more. When he determined she was steady, he released her immediately. The estate manager did not want to touch her any longer than necessary. It was another opinion she shared with him.

“Sybill! My child, how wonderful to see you at last!”

Lord Foxbridge held out his arms. For a moment, she looked at the tall man who had not been stripped of his dignity by his years. The gold of his hair was interlaced with gray, but his face had gained distinction along with wrinkles. His pale blue eyes squinted at her myopically, in the manner she remembered so well.

Before she quite knew what she was doing, she flung herself into his arms and was sobbing against the quilted satin of his dressing robe. His fingers, rubbing her back, were gnarled by years of riding across the windy moors while overseeing the tenant farms owned by the Cloister. She wept for something that had died within her. Perhaps seeing him had shown her like nothing else that her adoring, rakehell father was gone. She could no longer pretend it was another of the elaborate jokes Alfred Hampton enjoyed playing on his daughter. Her father was dead.

“Hush, child. Do not cry so harshly.” He looked over her head to see the astonishment on his assistant's face and was surprised by Trevor's reaction. He had thought Trevor would be impressed favorably by pretty Sybill Hampton. She had grown from a charming child to a lovely woman. He guessed she was past nineteen, certainly well aware of her attractiveness to men. Instead of admiring her, Trevor acted as if she was infected with the plague.

Quietly, Lord Foxbridge ordered, “Come in, Sybill. Trevor, will you bring a bottle of wine from the library? Miss Hampton needs something to calm herself after her harrowing times.”

The door closed in the face of the other man. It was just as well, for Trevor was unsure if he could have hidden his rage. The lord's words told him quite clearly what this woman's place was to be.

Miss Hampton!

As if the daughter of that man deserved such courtesy. His lips tightened into a straight line as he vowed he would do what he could to make sure she did not play the games she would have learned at her father's knee. She could be no better than the easy women in the unsavory London borough of Southwark, but he was going to be required to act as a servant for her.

Viciously snarling from behind his clenched teeth, he stamped to the stairs to do as his lord had requested. This was a state of affairs that would not last long. He was determined to see to that personally.

In the sitting room of Lord Foxbridge's private rooms, Sybill was managing to control her emotions. With a handkerchief she drew from a bag tied to her belt by the silken cord, she wiped her eyes as Lord Foxbridge continued to try to soothe her. She did not protest his awkward pats on her shoulder. In his letters, he had signed himself as “your dear uncle, Owen Wythe.” That was how she considered him. His touch affected her nothing like Mr. Breton's did. Her tears dried quickly as, with rage, she recalled the estate manager's actions. Perhaps he was a fine servant, but he had proven he was no gentleman.