The Secret to Seduction (32 page)

“Mary!”

“Really, Sabrina, you should see the daughters of Mr. Wilson, the vicar in St. Wilberforce where Katherine Morton lives. A pair of horses, the poor things.”

Sabrina wasn’t proud of it, but she laughed. “Mary, you must be kind,” she insisted. “It has naught to do with the fact that their father is a vicar, I’m certain. But you read about this in . . .”

“The
Times.
Which is the most reputable newspaper in London. Perhaps the only reputable newspaper. Paul knows these things, you see,” she said proudly.

“And
why
was it in the paper?”

“A trial. It seems Anna Holt supposedly murdered her protector many years ago, but now they know she did not. A Mr. Morley did. Or had it done. I cannot recall. But no one has seen Anna Holt since.” Mary delivered this last sentence with a good deal of dramatic flair. “Paul might be able to tell you more, but he doesn’t think it proper for me to know such things.”

Paul didn’t quite think it proper for Mary to fill her head with too many things from books, and was a bit confused by Sabrina’s penchant for doing just that. But Sabrina seemed to make Mary happy, and so he didn’t complain overmuch.

Sabrina was quiet, looking about the room. She wondered if one day she would look at this room and think:
This is where I finally learned who I am.

“A good many people are named Sabrina, Mary.”

“True enough,” Mary agreed.

“And a good many people are named Anna.”

“And that is also true.” She’d begun to sound a little disappointed.

“But it’s an interesting coincidence,” Sabrina allowed.

Mary brightened. “Isn’t it? Imagine. You might very well be the daughter of a
mistress.
” Her enthusiasm was gaining momentum again. “My goodness. The sister of a viscount! The wife of an earl! You are proving so much more interesting than Paul would prefer you to be.”

The last words trailed off a little, as if the momentum had carried them out of her mouth against her volition, and she looked a bit guilty.

Sabrina merely patted Mary’s knee, as this hadn’t been a surprise at all.

“Tell me about Katherine’s girls.”

Sabrina could listen to Mary chatter without saying much of anything in response. Mary’s chatter was like pleasant familiar music played in the background while she retreated to the privacy of her thoughts.

She’d never told anyone apart from her father of her memory of two other little girls, and a dark night. Of a kind woman with a soft voice and a pianoforte. Fragments of memories, worn away by time.

And she wondered if, perhaps, she ought to write a letter to Lady Grantham, or if the very idea of it was too absurd. The hope was so sweet, so unexpected, she almost hated to risk it by seeking the truth.

“What are you regarding so closely, Rhys?”

Wyndham, invited to White’s by Rhys, was bored, as
he
would rather not be reading, and Rhys was clearly absorbed in a book. Wyndham peered over Rhys’s shoulder. “It looks like . . .” He sounded alarmed. “It looks like a number of drawings of windmills.”

Rhys glanced up at him balefully.

Wyndham fixed Rhys with an intent gaze, brow furrowed in concern. Rhys returned his gaze to the book.

Wyndham continued to stare at him.

“Ask your next question, Wyndham,” Rhys said absently.

“
Why?
”

“Because I think that if I build a tower mill opposite the post mill on Buckstead Heath, I can grind the grain, plant the land that hasn’t been used, and sell the excess for profit.”

Wyndham was silent.

“Madame Galeau at The Velvet Glove has a new girl,” he finally said. “And she does things you would
not
believe.”

Rhys looked up from his book, interest mildly piqued. “Does she?”

“Ah, there you are, Rawden. I was just trying to ascertain if you were still in there somewhere. You’ve not been yourself of late.”

What on earth is “myself”?

“I don’t know whether she has a new girl, truly. But she generally does,” Wyndham said cheerfully. “Will you be joining me?”

“I’ll join you,” Rhys said absently.

Wyndham lifted up Rhys’s glass, sniffed it, shrugged, and finished it for him.

Rhys returned his gaze to his book of windmills, and seemed lost for another moment.

“You know, Rhys, perhaps a little country air will do you good.” Wyndham said this gently.

The gentleness made Rhys irritable. “I prefer the city.”

He clapped the book closed.

And that evening—or rather, that dawn—Rhys staggered out of his carriage and up the steps of his town house as the sun was rising. Madame Galeau had indeed taken on a new girl, and there had been quite an extraordinary performance of sorts featuring several girls, and then all the men had been invited to—

Which was when Rhys had called for a carriage and left. The
ton
was talking, he knew. About him, and why he hadn’t touched a woman in weeks.

The Libertine is besotted with his wife.

It made him furious.

He made it up the steps to the door, which was opened by his very accommodating butler.

“Tea,” he croaked. “And draw a bath.”

He wanted to clean the scent of The Velvet Glove from him, and soak in a bath, and not think.

And when he was clean again, and sober again, he discovered a letter was waiting for him. The handwriting on it was unfamiliar.

And for a moment he knew disappointment that it wasn’t Mrs. Bailey’s dutiful hand.

Rhys took it with him to his study, and over the pot of tea he broke the seal and read it.

He went still. Surprise and sadness swamped him with startling suddenness.

There were only a few words, but he read them twice, just to make certain he’d read them correctly. Just in case it wasn’t true.

But they read the same the second time, and he was forced to believe them. He sat with them, and thought, and remembered.

At another time he might have reached for the brandy decanter. He might have gone back to his club. He might have gone to Manton’s to shoot until his arm ached from holding up a pistol. Instead, he gazed out the window for some time at the streets of London coming awake.

And then he called for his carriage.

CHAPTER TWENTY

W
HEN THE CARRIAGE rolled into the cobblestoned courtyard of La Montagne, Rhys leaped out and all but dashed up the steps. He rang for Mrs. Bailey immediately, and moments later she bustled toward him as he stood in La Montagne’s vast foyer.

“My lord! We—”

“Weren’t expecting me. I know. I apologize, Mrs. Bailey. I regret I didn’t leave you enough time to sound the trumpets and strew flowers in my path.”

Mrs. Bailey offered up a strained but dutiful smile. Poor woman, to be saddled with an employer such as he who
would
insist on jesting.

“Where is the countess, Mrs. Bailey? I’d like to speak with her.”

The housekeeper hesitated. Her face had gone just a little wary. “The countess isn’t in at the moment, sir.”

He disliked her hesitation and the wariness. “Where is she?” He tried and failed to keep it from sounding like a demand.

Mrs. Bailey folded her hands against her apron, and pursed her lips a bit before answering, as if deciding upon what to tell him. “You can find her at the vicarage, sir.”

Was he imagining the faintly accusatory tone?

Rhys studied the housekeeper with narrowed eyes. She gazed levelly back at him. She was in her fifties at the very least, Mrs. Bailey was, and her hair was almost completely hidden beneath her cap, but a few spiraling ash-colored strands peeked out at the temples. Her complexion was ruddy, her flesh and drooping, dragging the corners of her mouth down, forming pouches beneath her eyes. Those eyes were surprisingly lovely. A shade of turquoise, ringed in gold. It made him wonder if she’d stories to tell. One could hardly go through life unscathed with a pair of eyes so lovely.

And was the accusation for him, or for Sabrina?

He wanted to ask, “Is Sabrina often at the vicarage?” when he realized how this would sound: a confession that he, the Earl of Rawden, knew little of the habits of his wife; had thought, until now, so little of the habits of his wife. Did Mrs. Bailey suspect he would disapprove of Sabrina’s being at the vicarage? Or did Mrs. Bailey know for certain that Sabrina was up to something of which he would never approve?

But it was his own fault, if that were the case. He’d given Geoffrey the living in part as a gift to Sabrina, so she would have a friend near. He hadn’t particularly cared what sort of relationship his cousin and his wife shared.

But now…now he intended to learn a good deal about the habits of his wife.

“Thank you,” he said stiffly.

Mrs. Bailey nodded once. Waited for him to dismiss her.

He turned to leave, then paused. “Mrs. Bailey?”

“Yes, my lord?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you have very pretty eyes?”

Mrs. Bailey’s face went utterly immobile, and she drew in a sharp breath, as though the compliment had been a fist to her ribs.

And then before his eyes, a soft pink slowly stained her skin, and everything about her softened and glowed. And she was beautiful.

“No, sir.”

He smiled a little. “We’ve all been remiss, then.”

And
that,
Rhys reminded himself, was the power of words, whether or not he ever wrote another one.

Sabrina had been sitting and dutifully listening to Geoffrey’s sermon when Geoffrey abruptly stopped talking, and stared toward the entrance of the church. Sabrina was surprised to see a quick flush darken his cheeks.

She whirled around. Her hand went up over her heart, as if to restrain it from leaping right out of her. She was on her feet instantly.

“Rhys!”

He stood in the doorway, hovering as though deciding whether to enter. He was turning his hat this way and that abstractedly in his gloved hands. His face was unreadable from where she stood, but she saw the light of his pale eyes from where she stood, and his gaze was fixed rather decisively on her.

“Mrs. Bailey told me I could find you here.” His voice was low and even, giving away nothing of his mood. And then, as a seeming afterthought, he added, “Geoffrey.” He directed this to his cousin and gave a curt shallow nod.

Sabrina saw Geoffrey’s eyes flicker an instant, a bright and startling flash of resentment. And then he bowed, conscious of his position, aware that a mere nod would never do.

Sabrina realized she was halfway up the aisle to Rhys. And then she slowed when she was closer to perhaps read his features, to better gauge his mood.

It wasn’t one she’d seen before on his face.

“Is aught amiss?” Her voice was fainter than she’d like it to be.

“No,” he said shortly, and extended his arm. She hesitated a moment—the hesitation won her an uplifted brow—and she looped hers through it, cautiously.

And then Rhys turned and strolled arm in arm with her out the door of the church, through the yard of tilting headstones, to where Gallegos was tethered at the gate and puffing air from his nostrils.

Sabrina realized belatedly that neither of them had bid Geoffrey good day.

“Have you come for a visit, then?” she began cautiously.

“Yes.”

More silence from her husband. But it wasn’t the seething sort. He seemed…reflective.

“How did you get here, Sabrina?” he asked after a moment.

“I walked.”

“Walked!”

She smiled at his astonishment. “’Tisn’t far, my Lord Barouche. I enjoy the exercise. And ’tis safe enough to walk alone here in town. Everyone knows me.”

He smiled a little, but the weight of whatever occupied his thoughts seemed to prevent smiles from lingering overlong. He fell quiet again, and he replaced his hat atop his head. He looked altogether rumpled, his coat and trousers wrinkled, which was surprising, when normally he was flawlessly groomed. Sabrina suspected he’d come nearly straight from London to the vicarage, and hadn’t even paused to freshen himself before he took Gallegos out.

“It’s cold today,” he said.

“Yes.” She said nothing more. She’d decided to leave the conversation uncluttered, to allow him room to say whatever it was he’d come here to say.

And then a terrible little suspicion struck: Did he suspect that she and Geoffrey…?

The thought horrified her. She felt her cold cheeks heating; a tiny, nauseating concern twisted in the pit of her stomach. Still, she would have expected fury, or cold rejection from him, if that were the case. This man of passions. Not this abstracted, stilted conversation.

And then Rhys turned, absently reaching out to twine the ends of her muffler more tightly about her throat, tuck them into her pelisse. A proprietary little gesture, and it made her heart give a sweet little kick. She looked up at him questioningly, but he’d turned his head again. He was looking toward the village, his light eyes squinting against the hard winter light, deepening the fan of lines around them.