“Don’t mind Juliet—she’s merely provoking you,” Lady Rosalind interjected. “Besides, Hephaestus was married to Aphrodite, so he couldn’t be
that
ugly, could he?”
That comment softened the blow considerably. Marrying a goddess was his own aim. He glanced over at the still smirking Juliet and smiled to himself.
Smirk all you want, my Aphrodite, but you’ll be my wife one way or the other. And when you are, I’ll make you eat your words. In bed. Where I intend to do a great deal of forging myself.
That thought made him randy enough to be uncomfortable. Fortunately, the rest of the journey went quickly. Less fortunately, by the time they reached Foxglen, his uncle had arisen. Uncle Lew strode out to hail them as the sleigh neared the manor. With a sigh, Sebastian pulled it up.
When Uncle Lew approached to greet them, he glanced meaningfully at the two ladies, then shot Sebastian a questioning look. Ah yes, Uncle Lew didn’t know how things had changed. The last time they’d spoken, Sebastian had sworn to steer clear of Juliet. Now here he was, squiring her about. He’d have to explain later.
“Out for a morning ride, are you? And in such lovely weather, too,” Uncle Lew said with a trace of sarcasm. “I was just on my way over to Charnwood Hall, but the three of you look frozen to the bone. Why don’t you come in for a spot of tea to warm you? I can show off my modest abode, then fetch my horse and ride on with you.”
“I’m sorry, Uncle, but we’ve no time to tarry,” Sebas
tian said smoothly. “Knighton is probably worried about his wife. We took longer than we intended.”
“Go on then with Lady Rosalind if you must. But I don’t see why Lady Juliet can’t remain with me for a while. I’ll settle for only one of your delightful companions.”
Sebastian groaned. So the blasted fool had finally decided to do as he’d been told the night before last. A pity it was precious little and too late.
“I’m not sure we should leave Lady Juliet without a chaperone,” Sebastian said. “Her family is very particular about such things.”
“It’ll be fine.” Lady Rosalind fidgeted impatiently in her seat. “Your uncle is clearly respectable, and there are servants about, I’m sure. I’d go on alone, but I don’t know if I can manage a sleigh.”
“And I’d like to stay,” Juliet chimed in. “I’d simply adore seeing Foxglen and hearing all your uncle’s tales about you and Morgan.”
Deuce take it, he hadn’t even thought of that. His uncle might let something slip that would rouse her suspicions again. “See here, Juliet—”
“You mustn’t keep Knighton waiting, my boy,” his uncle put in. “We’ll have a lovely little chat, Lady Juliet and I. I’ll enthrall her with tales of our wicked family secrets.”
He shot Uncle Lew a warning glance. Damn the man’s hide—this was not a game!
But his uncle merely winked as he offered his hand to Juliet. Casting Sebastian a taunting smile over her shoulder, she rose and climbed down.
When Sebastian hesitated, Uncle Lew made a shooing gesture with his hand. “Go on, I say! We’ll be fine.”
Devil take them both, they’d left him no choice. Gritting his teeth, he drove on. He would accompany Lady Rosalind to Charnwood Hall, then return immediately to Foxglen. The less time Juliet and Uncle Lew had to confer, the better.
As they approached the hall, however, an all too famil
iar figure vaulted down the entrance stairs, heedless of the treacherously icy steps. Sebastian muttered an oath under his breath. Knighton.
“Where in the hell have you been?” Knighton asked Lady Rosalind as the sleigh halted before him. Then he scowled at Sebastian. “And what do you mean, taking my wife out in this weather, Templemore?”
“Oh, don’t blame him, Griff,” Lady Rosalind said as Knighton hastened to help her out. “I was so very tired of being cooped up inside. We rode over to his uncle’s house, so Mr. Pryce could show me that edition of
Hamlet
he was talking about at dinner day before yesterday. You were sleeping and I didn’t want to wake you.”
Knighton looked only slightly mollified by that explanation. “Where’s Juliet? The servant said she went with you.”
“She did start out to go with us,” Lady Rosalind lied, “but she wasn’t feeling well and decided to return to bed instead. The servant probably didn’t see her come back in.”
Sebastian would have applauded the woman’s ingenuity if she hadn’t made it appear as if he’d been having a tête-à-tête with her in the sleigh. Knighton looked as if he wanted to strangle someone, and Sebastian had a fairly good idea who it might be.
Blast, blast, blast! These three were nothing but trouble. And God only knew what Uncle Lew was revealing with his loose tongue even as they stood here dawdling.
“Well, Knighton,” he said quickly, “now that you’re up, you two can have a cozy breakfast. I promised my uncle I’d go back and speak to his…er…steward about one of the tenants. You understand—estate business and all that.”
Lady Rosalind raised an eyebrow, but merely told her husband, “Yes, dear, let’s do have breakfast. I’m simply famished. And then I’ll look in on Juliet.”
As the couple climbed the stairs, Sebastian turned the sleigh back toward Foxglen, praying he wasn’t overtaxing
the draft horses in this snow. But he dared not leave Juliet with Uncle Lew any longer than necessary.
“You’ll have a nice bag of oats in a moment,” he crooned to the horses. “Just a little farther, and you can relax in comfort.”
A pity he couldn’t say the same for himself. He began to think it would be some time before he got to relax anywhere.
Much effort, much prosperity.
Euripides’
The Suppliant Women,
embroidered on a towel by Juliet Laverick
“Y
ou simply must see Lucinda’s favorite sitting room,” Mr. Pryce said an hour later as he accompanied Juliet down a middling hall toward an open door. “I think it would appeal to you.”
She managed a smile. Ever since Sebastian had driven off, she’d tried to turn the subject to him and Morgan, but Mr. Pryce always deftly returned it to some innocuous topic—like his late wife’s sitting room. She didn’t want to be rude, but for goodness sake, how could she find out anything to help her unmask Sebastian when Mr. Pryce wouldn’t discuss his nephews?
“You promised me family secrets,” she told him lightly, “and I haven’t heard a single one.”
“I’m building up to it.” He patted her hand where it
rested on his forearm. “All in good time, my dear, all in good time.”
She was still pondering that enigmatic statement when he showed her into the sitting room. Thoughts of his nephews fled her mind. “Oh my word…” she whispered as she gazed in awe around her.
From the tapestry of breathtaking beauty on one wall to the intricately worked seat cushions of every chair, the room was a celebration of needlework. Hangings and a fire screen and even the tablecloths were embroidered or worked entirely in delicate silks on linen or satin or even lace. Half in a daze, she left his side to stroll from piece to piece, admiring the choice of colors, the delicacy of the stitching, the consistency of design.
“It was my wife’s passion, you see,” Mr. Pryce said behind her. “Like you, she was never without her tambour or her needle.”
“She worked all these?” Juliet murmured in sheer admiration.
“Not entirely. The tapestry has been in the family for generations, and I purchased some of the other pieces for her. But the rest—” He swept his hand in an elegant arc to encompass the entire room. “All done by her hand.”
He spoke the words with a soft pride that brought a lump to her throat. She glanced at him. “If you don’t mind my asking, how long were you married before she…that is…”
“Ten years.” The gray morning light dusted his pale hair with ash as he scanned the room. “And she spent most of the last two in here, during the final stages of her illness. Being in this room surrounded by her own handiwork soothed her.” A faint smile touched his lips. “It soothed me, as well.”
His clear affection for his Lucinda made her want to cry. After seeing Rosalind try desperate measures to conceive a child by her beloved husband, then hearing Mr. Pryce
speak so adoringly of his late wife, Juliet felt envious. She had no one for whom her needs and wishes were tantamount, and vice versa. No matter what she protested to her sisters, she wanted that so badly she ached from the need.
Feeling tears well up, she glanced away. Mr. Pryce’s hand came to rest on her shoulder in a fatherly gesture that only made the tears burn more urgently.
His voice dropped to a comforting murmur. “Lucinda preferred needlework because it was something she could master during a time when she lacked mastery over anything else—like what was happening to her body. No doubt you understand how necessary it can be to pour your energy into a passion that gives you some measure of control when elsewhere you have none.”
All she could manage was a nod. She’d long ago noticed that her fondness for needlework waxed and waned according to the feelings of helplessness that assailed her. Whenever Papa and Helena admonished her, or Rosalind started to meddle, Juliet went looking for her tambour.
The only time in her life when needlework had
not
consumed her was during her supposed elopement, when she’d thought she was finding freedom with Morgan.
That had turned out to be merely another trap.
Mr. Pryce led her to a settee. When she took a seat, he sat down next to her. “You’re much like my nephew, I suspect. He pours his frustration into his passion, too, except that his passion happens to be pistols. His guns allow him the control over his life that he lacks.”
The last person to whom she’d compare herself just now was Sebastian. She eyed him bitterly. “In what possible way does your nephew lack control over his life, pray tell? He owns a vast, unencumbered estate that he rules with absolute power. He seems even to have control over you and
your
estate at times.”
“That is merely an illusion, all of it.” He fell silent a moment, staring off across the room. When he spoke
again, his voice held an edge. “Charnwood runs like a finely crafted watch these days, but Sebastian knows better than anyone how easily such efficiency can be ripped away. He’s seen it happen before.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
He swung his gaze back to her. “You don’t seem terribly fond of my nephew. Is it because of what his brother did?”
His “brother,” ha! She scowled at him. Did the man know the truth? Because if he did, and he was covering for Sebastian’s lies, he was as bad as his nephew, despite his appearance otherwise. “You could say that.”
“Before you make any judgments, you should know some things about Morgan and Sebastian.” He searched her face. “And about my brother-in-law, Sebastian’s father.”
“Are these the family secrets you were offering? Because if you mean to tell me that the previous baron was a notorious rake, I’m well aware of that.”
“Ah, but you are
not
aware of how that affected my nephews. It was Edward’s philandering that drove my sister to flee the marriage, leaving Morgan to grow up in exile and Sebastian to grow up motherless and friendless. You can’t possibly know what that meant for them.”
She tipped up her chin. “Actually, I do know what it’s like to grow up motherless. My own mother died giving birth to me.” The sympathy that flared in his eyes was so obviously genuine it hurt for her to look at it. Swallowing hard, she averted her gaze.
“But you had sisters to fill the role of mother.
And
a father who was part of your life. Sebastian had no one.”
So now they’d come to the crux of the matter. Sebastian. Not Morgan, but Sebastian. She shot Mr. Pryce a hard look. “He had his father. And
you.
”
“He had no one,” Mr. Pryce repeated firmly. “After my sister left, Edward abandoned Sebastian at Charnwood with a nurse and the housekeeper, then returned to London to enjoy himself. Sebastian rarely saw him.” A trace
of remorse filled his face. “My parents were dead, so I spent my days in London, too. As a young buck on the town, I did not concern myself with my young nephew, believing that he was well taken care of at the estate.”
By servants? she thought, vainly attempting to squelch her sympathy for a little boy ignored by all family and left to his own devices in a huge, soulless mansion.
“He was fourteen when I married,” Mr. Pryce went on, “but my wife and I rarely came to Foxglen. We enjoyed the delights of town.” A heavy sigh shook him. “After she became ill, we made the round of physicians, hoping for a cure. By the time we repaired here, when Lucinda was dying, Sebastian was twenty-two. My wife required my full attention anyway. There was no time for my nephew, even if he’d needed my help.”
His revelations tugged at her heart, which infuriated her. “Why are you telling me all this?” She rose from her seat and went to stand before the fire, trying to distance herself from his heart-wrenching revelations.
“You asked me how he lacked control in his life. I’m merely explaining.” His clipped tone bore into her back. “Sebastian grew up alone and friendless, inevitably tainted by the scandals his father attracted. Even out here we get the papers, you know, and they were full of Edward’s exploits. Sebastian couldn’t go into town without hearing his neighbors speak of his father with contempt and censure. As a child, he blamed himself, sure that his father’s behavior was connected to the death of Ophelia while she was bringing Sebastian into the world. No doubt you’re familiar with the guilt a child can feel in such a circumstance, warranted or not.”
She stared wordlessly into the flames. Oh, yes, she was quite familiar. It still haunted her to know her mother had died bringing her into the world, no matter how much her family dismissed her culpability.
“Sebastian reacted by arguing with anyone who con
demned Edward’s behavior. The more the townspeople criticized, the more Sebastian defended him. That brought on their pity, which only angered him. Nor did it help that he had to watch pieces of his inheritance being sold off to pay for Edward’s London extravagances–his mistresses and other entertainments. Or that he had to witness a succession of stewards steal his father blind, though he wrote Edward repeatedly about their incompetence. Yet despite all the evidence of Edward’s true character, Sebastian was stubborn, damn his hide. He made excuses for his father at every turn.”