Sybill (36 page)

“I will arrange for you to be taken back to London, if that is where you wish to go. With the false recommendation I have written, you should find employment quickly. I have included ten pounds to enable you to live until then.”

“My lady—”

She held up her hands and shook her head. “No, do not say it, Kate. Any apologies at this point will only add to my anger.”

The maid watched as the woman turned as she heard a knock. At the door stood Clara Pekins. This simple lass was going to be her full-time replacement? Kate hid her smile. Within a week, Lady Foxbridge would be urging her to return.

Clara glanced uneasily at the woman who was turning to go to her room. Remembering her manners, she dipped in a curtsy. “My lady, I am so sorry to hear your bereavement.”

“Thank you.” Sybill had been ready to wave aside the words, but had to maintain appearances. Even her new maid knew that. Clara had witnessed too many loud disagreements to believe Lady Foxbridge would rue the passing of her husband.

“You wanted me, my lady?”

“What? Oh, yes.” She was pulled back into the present. “Clara, I would like you to work with me all the time. Kate has decided to live in London.”

“Yes, my lady.” She understood what Lady Foxbridge did not have to say.

“Your first duty will be to air out the room three doors along the corridor. As soon as the funeral is over, I will be sleeping there again.”

Again she nodded. “Like it was before, my lady.”

“Almost.” She sighed as she looked at the closed door to the master bedroom. “Almost.”

Sybill had little time to worry about the past or future as she dealt with the details of the funeral. For a man of Owen Wythe's peerage, an elaborate memorial service would be required. A steady parade of families from the tenant farms came to pay their respects to their departed lord. If the eyes were more interested in seeing the elegance of the massive house than in weeping for Lord Foxbridge, no one said anything.

In her role as the bereaved widow, Sybill was able to avoid talking to those who called. She spent time in the kitchens with Mrs. Dailey arranging for the funeral feast. It would be held in the drawing room where Owen's portrait had been draped in black.

All day she rushed from one part of the Cloister to another. She wondered how she had managed to survive all this when her father died and she truly mourned. Perhaps the tasks eased the sorrow of the grievers. For this funeral, all she felt was fatigue and an anxiousness to have it over as quickly as possible.

By the time she came into the dining room for the evening meal, the circles under her eyes were nearly as dusky as her gown. She ignored Christopher and sat at the table. It was the first time she had been off her feet since Kate knocked on her door in the shadows before dawn.

Only when she heard her stepson's petulant voice did she look up to see what was bothering him. He was snarling, “I told you to leave!”

“Now, Christopher,” said Sybill with a light laugh. She found she could handle him best when she acted as if he was the child his actions resembled. “I asked Trevor to stay for dinner, so that you might ask him about the estate. After all, there are many matters he alone knows.”

“I am sure.” He waved for his unwelcome guest to be seated opposite Sybill. Reluctantly he sat in his own chair.

For the first time since Christopher and his friends had descended on the house, the conversation was not loud. The others kept quiet while Trevor answered the new lord's questions. Sybill realized quickly that her stepson had no idea what was required to maintain Foxbridge Cloister. Nor did he have any interest. “If you wish, my lord, I will go over the ledgers with you.”

“No, that isn't necessary. I assume Lady Foxbridge knows most of this.”

He nodded, as his eyes settled for a moment on the downcast face of the woman who had not spoken to him during the entire meal. It was an effort to pull them away, knowing he soon would be far from her and would leave his heart in her possession. “Sybill knows most of the business.”

“Sybill?” repeated one of Christopher's cronies. “You are most familiar with Lady Foxbridge, Breton.”

With a smile devoid of humor, the black-haired man turned to his attacker. “Sybill and I have been friends from before her marriage to the late Lord Foxbridge, Mr. Moulton. Both she and the late lord granted me permission to continue to call her by her given name.”

“That's right.” Sybill did not show any signs that what she was seconding was a lie. If Owen had thought of it, he would have forbidden them to use personal names.

“Enough!” stated Christopher imperiously. “I don't care if you call each other ‘Your majesty.' Breton, dessert is over. I think our extended invitation to you has expired. Why don't you leave?”

Pushing back his chair, he rose gracefully. “My lord, my lady, gentlemen, I bid you a good evening.” Sybill was shocked when Trevor did not move toward the door. Instead he came to her and took her fingers gently in his hand. Leaning over them, he kissed them most correctly. “It has been a pleasure to work for the late Lord Foxbridge and you, my lady. Again accept, along with my farewells, my heartfelt condolences on your recent loss.”

“Thank you, Trevor. I appreciate all you have done for us here.” Inside, she was sobbing out her sorrow to think of losing the man she loved. Her husband had died, but she had fewer tears for Owen than she would shed for Trevor when she reached the sanctuary of her rooms. Their stilted words covered the love in their hearts. “Good luck, Trevor,” she added in the silence. “May God bless you on your journey wherever life takes you.”

“Thank you, my lady.” Squeezing her fingers, his eyes told her what he could not say. She had to believe this parting was only temporary.

With her fingers gripped in her lap, Sybill pretended nothing was wrong. She met Christopher's belligerent stare evenly. Primly she rose.

“Where are you going, Sybill?” Christopher grasped her wrist.

“I thought you gentleman would prefer not to have me with you while you enjoy your drinks. If you will excuse me, I have many details to handle before the funeral.”

He stood to tower over her. “I forget you are the bereaving widow. Perhaps it is because black is so lovely on you. It brings out the luster in your eyes.”

“Thank you. You have said that before. Now I ask you to pardon me.” She turned to walk around him, but he refused to let her pass. Her breath came out in a choked gasp as he twirled her into his arms. When she demanded to be released, he simply laughed. “Come, Sybill, you do not have to pretend with us. We met your father often in London. We know what service you Hamptons are skilled at providing.”

“I am not a Hampton! I am a Wythe!” she retorted. “I am not in the same business as my father was.”

“No, I can see that.” He did not relinquish his hold on her as he turned to his friends. “She is more like her mother than Hampton.”

“My mother?” she gasped involuntarily.

He smiled. “How long has it been since you have seen Countess Northrop, Sybill? You look exactly like the paintings of her in her youth. Did she ever explain to you why she left you to marry a man who could give her what Hampton never could? She was just like you. She married an aging peer and gained herself a title.”

“Countess Northrop? You are mad! She can't be my mother. My mother is dead.” When he did not reply, she fought to get what felt like an anvil off her chest. “Are you saying Countess Northrop is my real mother? That she did not marry my father, but married another man instead?”

Sybill tried to recall the woman. She remembered several visits by the countess from years past, but nothing recent. As she thought back, she could remember the countess always brought her gifts and occasionally took her for rides, but never on the most popular streets. If the countess was truly her mother, she had not made much more of an impression than her father's other ladies, who petted her and gave her sweetmeats. There had been many in her father's life, and she could not remember if her father treated Countess Northrop any differently than his other companions.

Christopher crowed with delight, breaking into her thoughts. “You didn't know! Hampton kept the secret. I wonder if Blair was paying him to keep quiet. When he died, everyone expected her to take you. Only her new lover kept her from finally admitting to what everyone knows.” He laughed again. “Everyone but her pretty daughter.”

He swept her veil off her head. The fullness of her curls cascaded over the arm that was holding her close to him. When she cried out in horror at his actions, he silenced her with his mouth over hers. She fought him, but she could not break his grip on her. Despite his dissolute life in London, he was stronger than she was. Enraged, she raised her foot and kicked his shins. She wore her riding boots because they were the only black, unadorned shoes she owned. Stockings covered his legs, and he jumped back as he yelped in pain.

Scooping up her veil, she ran toward the door. One of the men stepped in front of her. He was ready to halt her when he heard a voice beyond him. “My lady, do you require assistance?”

“Yes, thank you, Marshall,” she gasped, thankfully. “Come upstairs with me. There are some things we must do this evening.”

The butler never lost his aplomb as he held out his hand to motion her to precede him. For all appearances, he was the loyal household retainer aiding the bereaving widow with funeral plans rather than helping her escape from her depraved stepson.

Sybill endured the funeral and all its rites in a blur. She had not slept the previous night, for she hoped somehow Trevor immediately would take her from Foxbridge Cloister. As the night faded into dawn, she knew that hope would not come true.

So she followed the wagon bedecked with black crepe and the coffin of Owen Wythe, Lord Foxbridge. The snow silenced the countryside, but the wailing of the paid mourners disrupted the seabirds. Their squawking added to the plaintive cries of the procession. She felt nothing as the wooden case was lowered into the ground. When Reverend Sears placed a clod of dirt in her hand, she stared at it as if she did not know what it was.

“My lady?” he urged.

“What, Reverend?”

“Throw it into the grave, so that the gravediggers are signaled that it is time to refill it.”

With a nod, she did, wincing as she heard the dull thud of the dirt breaking apart as it struck the wooden lid. It brought to mind the winter day less than a year ago when she had been the only one standing by an impatient clergyman as she wept for her father. She looked across the grave to see Christopher's eyes on her. As the shovels scooped up the loosened soil, he rounded the hole and put his arm around her shoulders. She shook it off, not caring who saw.

Tightening her shawl around her shoulders, she walked back to the Cloister by herself, a black speck against the newly fallen snow. As the mourners watched her cross the expanse of lawn, it seemed as if they had never seen anyone so lost and so alone.

Chapter Eighteen

“Lady Foxbridge.” Christopher rose from his chair when she entered the solarium.

“You sent for me?”

“Yes. Would you like a drink?”

She nodded. “A glass of wine might be nice.” When he handed her the goblet, she thanked him. She watched as he sank back into his chair. Not for a second could she trust Christopher Wythe. She had been hurt by one of this family. Never again would she be its gullible victim.

“It hasn't been an easy day for you, Sybill. You arranged a funeral that did Foxbridge Cloister proud.”

“Thank you,” she murmured again. “I know it was what your father would have wanted.”

“I have been thinking about the future of the Cloister.”

“Have you really?” She could not keep her shock from her voice. The only thing she had thought was on his mind was the money he would receive when the will was read.

He leaned forward and smiled coldly. “You needn't sound so surprised. This is, after all, my home. I truly care about this place.”

“I'm glad, Christopher, because there's much work to be done. If it's a labor of love, then it's easier.”

“As it was for Breton?”

She nodded again as she lifted the goblet. “Yes, Trevor loves Foxbridge Cloister.”

“And its lady?”

“Christopher!” She put the right amount of outrage into her voice. Silently she congratulated herself on her continuing expertise as an actress.

His blond eyebrows made a barely visible furrow across his forehead. “That was quite a performance last night in the dining room. You two appeared more like parting lovers than an employer bidding a clerk farewell.”

“Trevor was being a gentleman.”

“Which is more than you could say for me, correct?”

With a smile as icy as his, she said, “Remember those are your words, my lord.” She rose. “If you will excuse me, I am tired. It has been harrowing.”

Instantly he intercepted her. “No, Sybill, I won't excuse you.” When she began to protest, he stated, “I am Lord Foxbridge. My word is law within these walls.”

“Within reason,” she qualified his statement. “No!”

He laughed as he heard her reaction to his hands reaching for her. Before she could move, he caught her and dragged her back into his arms. “Why do you fight me so?”

“I don't want to be my stepson's paramour.”

“Sweet Mother dear, I would not do that to you.” His fingers brushed aside the veil she wore, so he could explore the soft skin of her neck with his mouth. Against her skin, he whispered, “My dear, dear Sybill, there is an obvious way to settle the future of Foxbridge Cloister. Marry me, and enjoy a young man's loving instead of my father's touch. I know he could not—”

She interrupted him before he said the words that could not be spoken. To say aloud the truth would endanger the child sleeping under her heart. “I won't marry you!”