Barbara Metzger (23 page)

He supposed he did love her. He surely had all the attics-to-let symptoms of a mooncalf in love. But could he live with Sydney Lattimore? Hell, could he live without her?

He had yet another concern: Did she love him? He knew from her kisses that she was not altogether unresponsive to him, but she also resented him, sometimes despised him, and never respected him. More often than not, she looked at him as if he were queerer than Dick’s hatband. Maybe he was, to care what she thought. Hang it, he’d had more kicks than kisses from the wench!

His mother thought Sydney loved him, for what the opinion of another totty-headed, illogical female was worth. Plenty, most likely, he thought as he picked up the horse’s pace again. Now, there was another woman he never hoped to understand. The duke said you’d end up cross-eyed if you tried, anyway. But the duchess had always preached propriety, breeding, duty to the family name. Now she was pleased to consider one of the devil’s own imps as her successor. He shuddered at the thought. Sydney as duchess meant Sydney as his wife.

Confused by the mixed signals it was receiving, the chestnut reared. Forrest brought it back under control with a firm hand and a pat on the neck. “Sorry, old fellow. My fault for wool-gathering. I don’t suppose you have any advice?” The horse shook its head and resumed the canter. “No, gelding is not the answer.”

He set his mind to the matter at hand, looking out for other riders and strollers now that the park was getting more crowded. When they reached another shaded alleyway, however, Forrest let the horse pick their way while he searched his mind for answers.

If he loved Sydney, he should marry her. If she loved him, she would marry him. He did not think for a moment that she would wed for convenience, not his Sydney with her fiery emotions. And there was no longer a reason for her to make a cream-pot marriage, not with Winnie’s future guaranteed. She had to know Brennan would look after her, and the general as well. Forrest would see to the settlements himself, ensuring she never had to concoct any more bubble-headed schemes, even if she did not marry him.

But she would marry him if she loved him. If he asked. Zeus, what if she refused? What if a slip of a girl with less sense than God gave a duck refused the Viscount of Mayne, one of the most eligible bachelors in London? He’d never recover, that’s what. She’d be a fool to turn down his title, wealth, and prospects, but he would be shattered.

And the duchess would know. She always did. Gads, he’d have to listen to her taunts whenever he was at home, unless she told all her friends. Then he’d be a laughingstock everywhere he went. He may as well move to the Colonies, for all the joy he’d find in England.

He reined the horse to a standstill, tipping his hat to a family of geese crossing the path to the Serpentine. The gossip did not matter any more than the honking of the geese. There would be no joy without Sydney, period.

Such being the case, he acknowledged, kneeing the horse onward, still at a walk, there was nothing for it but to put his luck to the touch. He had to ask. But when? His mother had both girls so hedged about with callers and servants, he’d never get to see Sydney alone now.

The duchess was not leaving the rumor hounds a whiff of scandal. Forrest was glad, for no one with baser desires could reach the Lattimores either. He had not forgotten about the moneylending scum and still had men watching the house and scouring London for Randall and Chester. His men had turned up the information that they were brothers, as unlikely as it seemed, by the name of O’Toole. Bow Street was also extremely interested in their whereabouts.

Let Bow Street worry about the blackguards, Forrest decided. The best way to keep Sydney safe was to keep her by his side. Which, he thought with a frown, his own mother was preventing. He might get her alone the night of the betrothal dinner his mother was hosting for Brennan and Winifred. He could suggest showing Sydney the family portrait gallery. No, he would feel all those eyes were watching him play the fool. Perhaps a visit to the jade collection in the Adams Room, he mused. No, the locked cabinets reminded him of his parents’ stormy relationship.

As he went on a mental tour of Mainwaring House, the viscount discovered a new romantical quirk to his thinking. He wanted Sydney where no one could disturb them, in daylight when he could see the emotions flicker in her hazel eyes. He wanted to ask her to live with him at Mayne Chance,
at
Mayne Chance.

They were all coming to Sussex for the holidays, after the Season. The wedding would be held there after the new year, he understood from Bren, in the family chapel.

Yes, the Chance was the perfect place to take his own chance. The holidays added a special excitement anyway, with parties throughout the neighborhood, mistletoe, kissing boughs, and the whole castle decorated in greenery. With excursions to gather the holly and the yule log, to deliver baskets to the tenants and flowers to the church, he would surely find the ideal opportunity. Maybe there would be snow, with sleigh rides, long walks, ice skating, and snowball fights with his sisters’ children. Forrest found he couldn’t wait to show Sydney his home, his heritage, her future.

His mother was wrong; there was no rush. Forrest could wait for the perfect time, the perfect place. He smiled and set the gelding to a measured trot. “Time to go home, boy.”

Suddenly his mount reared. Then it bucked and crow-hopped and tossed its head. Forrest managed to stay on by sheer luck and ingrained good horsemanship, for he hadn’t been paying attention this time either, visions of Sydney with snowflakes falling on rosy cheeks obscuring his view of Rotten Row.

He collected the thoroughbred and was straightening his disordered neckcloth when he noticed that the chestnut had flecks of blood on its head. Holding the reins firmly, Forrest dismounted.

“What the deuce?” The gelding’s ear appeared to have a clean slice partway through. Forrest looked around and saw no one. Still holding the reins, he murmured soothing words to the horse and led it back to where his beaver hat lay on the path. He kept looking behind him, in the trees, through the shrubbery. Damn, there were a million places an ambusher could hide. Then his eye caught the glint of metal and he tugged the still-nervous animal off the tanbark. A knife was embedded in a tree trunk at just about the height of his head when astride.

“Hell and damnation,” he cursed under his breath at his own stupidity.

Figuring the assailant to be long gone, Forrest pocketed the knife and remounted. He retraced their path, keeping his wits about him this time. The only person he saw was a bent old woman with a cane and a shawl over her head, sitting on a stone bench. A flock of pigeons pecked at the grass near her feet.

“Good day, Grandmother,” the viscount called. “Did you see anyone come after me on the path?”

The old hag raised her head. “Whatch that, sonny?” she asked through bare gums, her mouth caved in around missing teeth.

“I said, did you see someone following me? Anybody suspicious?”

“No, and no.” The crone shook her head sadly. “M’eyesight ain’t what it used to be.”

Forrest tossed her a coin and rode away. The old woman cursed and tore the shawl off her head, leaving a crop of red hair. Then she threw her spectacles on the ground and jumped on them. Then she kicked a pigeon or two. Randy hadn’t listened to his mother either.

Chapter 24

Sydney and Sensibilities

Something was wrong. Circumstances were at their best, yet Sydney felt her worst. She was thrilled at Winifred’s good fortune, truly she was. Winnie’s slippers had not touched the ground since the duchess nodded her approval. Sydney’s sister would be wrapped round with love and happiness, tied with a golden future like the most wonderful, glittering Christmas gift. And Sydney was not satisfied.

They had no more worries about squeezing the general’s pension so hard it cried, and Sydney’s own dowry was to be restored with all debts—unspecified—absorbed under the terms of the settlements. Sydney and the general were invited to make their homes with Bren and Winnie in Hampshire when they went, or with the duke and duchess in London and Sussex. So there was nothing to get in a pother about.

But it wasn’t enough, Sydney knew. She did not want to be a charity case, even if she were the only one who considered herself in that light. She did not want to be a poor relation, hanging on her sister’s coattails, the bridesmaid going along on the honeymoon. As much as she liked and admired the duchess, she did not think she would be happy in another woman’s household either, especially not one where the china had an uncertain future and the eldest son was likely to bring home a bride of his own at any time. No, she would not think of that.

What she did think of, what kept her chewing on her lip, was that she had not met her goals. She had not satisfied her honor. With the best of intentions and far better results than she could have attained, the Mainwarings were taking over her responsibilities. They were making decisions for her, providing for her, caring for her. She even rode in one of their carriages. Sydney was back to being the little sister, and she did not care for it one whit.

There was a big hole in her life, not filled by all the picnics and parties and fittings and fussing over clothes the duchess insisted on, nor by the maids and grooms and errand boys the duchess deemed necessary for Winnie’s consequence. The hole was where her plans and schemes, daydreams and fancies, used to occupy her thoughts. She used to feel excitement, anticipation, the sense that she was doing something worthwhile, something for herself and her loved ones. Now she felt ... nothing.

There was a bigger emptiness in her heart. He never came except on polite, twenty-minute calls with his mother. He never asked for more than one dance at any of the balls, and he never held her hand longer than necessary. He no longer ordered her about, threatened her, or shouted at her. He did not curse or call her names, and he never, ever made her indecent proposals.

Sydney did not really expect Forrest to continue his atrocious behavior, not with all the maids and chaperones the duchess stacked like a fence around her and Winnie’s virtue. And she did not really expect him to repeat his outrageous offer, not with his mother in town.

Well, yes, she did. He was a rake, and no rake would let a few old aunties or abigails get in his way. He’d never been bothered about speaking his mind in front of Willy or Wally. And no rake in any of the Minerva Press romances ever even
had
a mother, much less pussyfooted around her feelings. The duchess said he was dull and always had been. Sydney knew better. He just didn’t care anymore.

So Sydney wouldn’t care either, so there. It did not matter anyway, she told herself; her dog loved her. Princess Pennyfleur was a delight. Sydney called her Puff for short, since all of the Duchess’s Princess dogs answered to Penny, and Puff was so special she deserved a name of her own. The little dog was always happy, wearing that silly Pekingese grin that made Sydney smile. She was always ready to romp and play or go for a walk, or just sit quietly next to Sydney while she read. Puff wasn’t like any unreliable male, blowing hot, then cold.

Even the general enjoyed the little dog. He held her in his lap, stroking her silky head for hours when Sydney was out in the evenings. Griffith thought the general’s hand was growing stronger from all the exercise. Puff was wise enough to jump down if the general grew agitated, before he started pounding on anything.

They made quite a stir in the park, too, just as the duchess predicted. Traffic at the fashionable hour came to a halt when Sydney walked by with her coppery curls and her matching dog curled like a muff in her arms or trotting at her heels. It was a picture for Lawrence or Reynolds, or Bella Bumpers.

* * * *

“We gotta nab her in the park. It’s the only place she ain’t cheek-to-jowls with an army of flunkies. She don’t have time for me no more, and they’ve got a carriage of their own now, not that she would get back into the carriage after that time with you at the reins, Fido.”

Randy had a new set of teeth. Actually, he had half of a new set, the bottoms. These ivories, from a blacksmith who had been kicked in the mouth once too often, were again too big for Randy, so his lower jaw jutted out over the upper, giving him the appearance of a bulldog. He blamed the viscount for that, too, setting Bow Street on their tail. Now neither of the brothers dared show his own face outdoors long enough for Randy to visit a real denture-maker. He never admitted to Bella that the footmen smashed the first set, not the viscount, so the grudge was a heavier weight on her back, too.

They were holding their latest planning session in the basement at their house in Chelsea, the only place Chester felt secure.

“I’m not going to do it, Mama,” he whimpered now. “It’s not safe. We’ve got to get out of London. To hell with the money, I say.”

“You’d say you were mad King George if you thought it would save your skin, pigeon-heart. ‘Sides, we’re all packed. We just have to snag the gel and catch the packet at Dover. We’ll have it all. First he’ll pay, then we give out her suicide note saying he ruined her. He’ll be finished. It’s perfect.”

Chester lost what color he had. “We’re not going to kill the girl, Mama. You promised.”

“Nah, Chester, we’re going to let the wench swim back to England and fit us for hemp neckties.” Randy was practicing his knife-throwing. One landed a shiver’s distance from Chester’s foot.

“I’m not going, then. I’m not having anything to do with murder. Mayne would find us at the ends of the earth. Besides, she’s seen me too many times. The footman, then that fellow Chesterton. She’ll recognize me for sure. It won’t work. I won’t— yeow!”

Chester was going, only now he’d limp.

* * * *

Leaves crunching under her feet, not even Sydney could be in the doldrums on such a pretty fall day. She had on a forest-green pelisse with the hood up, with Puff on a green ribbon leash scampering at her side. Brennan and Winnie walked just ahead, since there was room for only two abreast on this less frequented path they chose. Sydney slowed her steps to give them some quiet time alone. They must be feeling the lack of privacy even more than she was.