Double Deception (10 page)

There was an awkward silence, during which Athena wished she had held her tongue. Her emotions had betrayed her into confiding some of her painful secrets to this man who obviously cared not a fig for her.

"How long have you been estranged from your father, my dear?"

Beguiled by the gentleness of his voice, Athena replied without thinking. "Ever since my marriage. My stepmother made it quite clear that she would not welcome me back when John returned to his regiment."

"And Sir Henry? Did he agree to this?"

"He must have done so," she responded quietly. "I wrote to him several times, begging him to let my child be born at Rothingham Manor, but he never replied. So John took me with him, and Penelope was born in Spain, in General Wellesley's baggage train." A bitter little laugh escaped her.

"How much farther to the ruins, my lord?" she asked, abruptly changing the subject.

The earl appeared not to have heard her question. "That must have been difficult for you," he said in a low voice.

"No more so than for everyone else in that god-forsaken place," she replied softly. "And better than for others—all those who died." She paused for a moment as the memories of that horrifying time came rushing back. "But I do not regret a moment of it. I was there when they brought John back after Ta-lavera. He spoke to me, and I was able to give him some comfort at the end...." Her voice died away and Athena felt the tears sting her eyes. If she lived to be a hundred, she would never forget that dreadful day. There had been so many wounded to care for that she had been unable to mourn John until much later, after the dead and dying had been separated from the wounded.

No, she thought, it had not been easy. Nothing in her life seemed to be easy anymore. And all she wanted was to make Penelope's life a little easier than her own had been. Could he not see that?

Much to Athena's relief, no more was said until the walled garden of the ancient Abbey came into view. Behind the imposing walls of stone, breached here and there by the eroding effects of time and weather, the Abbey itself crouched, dark and menacing even in the early afternoon sunlight. Athena shuddered.

What stories this place might tell if it only had a voice, she thought. How many lovers had sought the sanctuary of the chapel to confirm their unions before God? she wondered. How many holy men had lived out their unblemished lives within its walls? And how many unhappy souls had languished in the dank dungeons, adding their poor bones to the others that Perry had said were buried there? And what of the ghosts who haunted the Abbey gardens?

She shuddered again at the thought. "The ghostly monks are said to walk only at midnight." The deep, faintly amused voice came from close beside her, and Athena looked down to find the earl standing by the mare, his deep blue-black eyes fixed on her face.

The horses had stopped beneath a huge, gnarled oak tree, whose limbs stretched out protectively, offering a welcome canopy of shade. Athena tore her eyes away from the earl's amused gaze and looked up into the branches towering above her. Hardly a glimpse of the summer sky was visible through the thickly clustering leaves. How many terrible events had this tree witnessed? she wondered. And how much celebration and joy? She hoped that the joys had outweighed the disasters. She truly hoped that today would not be one of the disasters.

"This is the official picnic site," the earl was saying in his deep, oddly melodic voice. He was obviously waiting to lift her down from the mare, and Athena felt a tremor of apprehension. It was an ordinary enough courtesy that a gentleman provided for a lady. Perry had lifted her out of his curricle many a time in London, and she had thought nothing of it. But somehow the thought of the earl's hands ...

Athena shook herself mentally. She was being very missish about this, she told herself firmly. She was a grown woman of eight-and-twenty. And she could not sit here forever. Resolutely, she turned to him and put out her arms.

"If you would be so kind, my lord," she murmured, avoiding his gaze.

And then his hands were on her, and he lifted her out of the saddle, setting her down slowly beside the mare. Had she merely imagined he did it in slow motion? His hands held her, encircling her waist with a warmth that burned right through the riding habit to her bare skin, a fraction longer than was strictly necessary. Or seemly. A rather long fraction, she thought. As she had known they would.

It was only after Athena had removed her hands from his arms, where she had rested them for support, and stepped back that she realized that the pressure of Lord St. Aubyn's hands on her had terrified her far more than any of the ghostly fathers said to roam the Abbey gardens at midnight.

***

The Earl of St. Aubyn had every reason to feel pleased with himself. Was not his plan to divert Peregrine's attention from the widow progressing admirably? he thought. And Lady Sarah's notion to keep Perry riding beside the carriage to entertain the Rathbone ladies had been positively inspired. He tied his chestnut and Mrs. Standish's mare to a hawthorn bush beside the Abbey wall, and turned back to the female whose ambitions he had sworn to thwart.

The truth was, he admitted with a wry grin, Athena Standish did not stand a chance against the ravishing Rathbone chit. It was not that the widow was unattractive. Actually, her face was rather lovely, and when she smiled—as she often did to that graceless son of his—her eyes glowed with unsuspected warmth and tenderness. No, Sylvester admitted, the widow was no antidote; it was only in contrast to the overstated pink and white perfection of the Beauty that she paled.

His gaze rested on her slight figure, and he smiled to himself. There was definitely nothing wrong with her shape. His palms still tingled with the feel of her small waist beneath the light fabric of her riding habit. He had been suddenly reluctant to release her, and had deliberately held her a moment or two beyond what was proper. She had refused to meet his gaze, and Sylvester could have sworn she had held her breath until he released her. Had he flustered the little widow? he wondered. So much the better. Perhaps she would be distracted from the spectacle of his son making a complete cake of himself over a brainless twit with a perfect face.

He strolled over to stand beside her, wondering what else he might do—within the bounds of propriety, of course-—that would wrest her attention from Peregrine. Several rather pleasant alternatives did occur to him, but Sylvester regretfully dismissed them as highly improper methods of captivating a lady's attention.

His musings were interrupted by the noisy arrival of the carriages, and Sylvester leaned against the old oak to enjoy the spectacle of his Aunt Sarah's preparations for a small family picnic. It was a family joke that Lady Sarah's picnics were grander and involved more fanfare and preparation than a state dinner in the Great Hall at the Castle. She had brought seven footmen and three maids, besides an army of grooms and the undercook, whose sole task it was to see to the arrangement of the various dishes on the tables being set up in the shade of the spreading oak.

From the vantage point of her carriage, Lady Sarah directed the goings-on with military precision, although Sylvester knew from experience that the servants could manage very well without her supervision. He remembered with a stab of nostalgia how Adrienne had hugely enjoyed the incongruity of Lady Sarah's simple pastoral outings, as his aunt always called her forays into the countryside.

Mrs. Standish appeared to find the proceedings equally astonishing, for she moved to stand beside him, a tentative smile on her lips.

"Your aunt does not believe in doing things by half measures, my lord," she murmured after a moment, eyeing two burly footmen struggling with a hamper stuffed full of dishes of cold chicken, roast venison, pigeon pie, sausages, and other delicacies.

Sylvester laughed. "Aunt Sarah's idea of a simple country repast rivals Henry the Eighth's most sumptuous banquets," he replied lightly. "And we all know how much that illustrious monarch enjoyed his food." He motioned to a footman carrying the wine basket. "Allow me to pour you a glass of wine, Mrs. Standish," he invited, watching out of the corner of his eye as Perry settled the two Rathbone ladies in comfortable chairs and poured them glasses of lemonade.

The widow must have observed him, too, for the gaze she turned upon him was troubled. "I should be drinking lemonade, my lord," she murmured.

"But wine sounds so much more appetizing, does it not?" he suggested with a smile. "And it is nicely chilled, too," he added, drawing the cork from the bottle of champagne and pouring two glasses. "I shall join you, madam, if you have no objection. But allow me to commandeer a chair for you first." He motioned to a footman, who immediately set up two chairs a little apart from the group around the table.

Sylvester caught his son casting a worried glance in the widow's direction, and before long the viscount approached with a glass of lemonade in his hand.

"I have b-brought you some 1-lemonade, Athena," he stammered, blushing like a schoolboy. "You must be w-warm after your ride."

The widow did not respond immediately, and when she did there was a definite chill in her voice. "I am well taken care of, thank you," she said flatly, without looking at him.

Sylvester saw his son wince at the rebuff and intervened to soften the blow. "I am sure Mrs. Standish would enjoy some cold chicken, Perry. And perhaps some of Cook's fresh bread. I know I would."

He was rewarded with a grateful look before Perry strode away on his errand. Before his son reached the table, Sylvester heard the tinkling voice of Miss Rathbone calling out teasingly. "I do declare, my dear Lord Fairmont," she trilled with enervating gaiety, "you have abandoned me to starve to death. Oh, do bring me some of that delicious-looking pigeon pie, and perhaps a sliver of cold chicken."

Quite twenty minutes later, when Peregrine had not returned, Sylvester thought it best to bestir himself on the widow's behalf. He had intended her to be slighted, but certainly not left without her nuncheon. When he returned with two plates of food, he noted that Mrs. Standish was fit to be tied, her amber eyes glowing with suppressed fury. He did not envy Peregrine when the widow caught up with him.

"I am not hungry, my lord," she said, abruptly rising to her feet and shaking out her skirts. "I think I will take a stroll down by the stream." Without another word, she swooped off with an angry swishing of skirts, leaving the earl with a curious smile on his face. He resumed his seat, took a healthy bite of chicken, and watched with interest to see how Peregrine would react to his betrothed's departure.

It was Penelope, however, not Peregrine, who flew after the widow and took her hand.

"Let me come with you, Mama," the child cried, skipping along in the grass. "Perry says there are minnows and frogs in the stream. May I keep a frog if I find one? Please, Mama?"

Sylvester did not catch the widow's response, but he saw the affectionate hug she bestowed on her daughter, and an unexpected twinge of envy touched his heart. If things had been different, he thought, he might have had a daughter of his own. Adrienne's daughter.

His eyes followed the lithesome widow and her daughter down the grassy slope to the edge of the small stream. It struck him quite suddenly that mother and child made a delightful picture in the pastoral setting, a sight to warm any man's heart.

For the first time in many months, Sylvester felt the old ache of loneliness swell up in his chest.

***

"When is Perry going to take us to see the dungeons, Mama? Do you suppose he can have forgotten his promise?"

Penelope had asked the question four times since they left the party to walk beside the stream, but Athena had no answer for her. She dared not glance over her shoulder for fear the earl might be staring at her. She
knew
he was staring at her, that cynical half-smile on his face. He had been staring at her—she was sure of it—since she left him so abruptly holding two plates of food.

It had been unpardonably rude of her, she realized. His lordship had merely been the attentive host, and she had behaved like some gauche miss straight out of the schoolroom. Considering how much he disliked her, he had actually been quite charming. Except for that moment when his hands had held her longer than they should have, of course. Although, now that she looked back upon the scene, Athena could hardly credit it. Perhaps she had imagined it. Her nerves had been distraught over her betrothed's inappropriate attentions to Miss Rathbone.

And now her flash of temper had landed her in this awkward impasse. How the earl must be laughing at her, she fumed, for there was not the least doubt in Athena's mind that the odious man had enjoyed her discomfort and understood only too well the cause of her peevishness.

Her daughter naturally had no such reservations, and Athena saw Penelope's eyes stray wistfully to the group under the old oak. She felt a cold fury at Perry's thoughtlessness building inside her. If the wretch did not keep his promise to her daughter, she would box his lying ears for him, she vowed. No doubt his smug lordship would vastly enjoy seeing his son's betrothed behave like a veritable fishwife. Indeed he would, and the thought of giving the earl that satisfaction dampened her anger.

"Oh, here he comes," Penny cried suddenly, her elfin face brightening perceptibly. "You see, Mama, Perry did not forget his promise." She paused and Athena saw a shadow cross her daughter's face. "But why is he bringing Miss Rathbone with him?" she asked with the naivete of childhood. "I do not like her very much, Mama. She is so silly—"

"Hush, darling," Athena said, turning to observe the progress of the Beauty towards the stream, clinging to the viscount's arm as though she were in dire peril of falling. One would think Miss Rathbone were navigating a rocky hillside instead of a gentle, grassy slope, Athena thought disgustedly.

But her worst fears were soon confirmed.

"Miss Rathbone is anxious to explore the ruins, too," Peregrine said, an apologetic smile on his face. "So I invited her—"