Seeking Philbert Woodbead ( A Madcap Regency Romance ) (The Fairweather Sisters) (6 page)

War was
declared and silent battle ensued between the two sisters conducted by
blinking, rolling, glaring and finally squinting of the eyes.

The war was
won by Celine who punctuated her squint by pointing firmly at the door.

Dorothy
conceded defeat and departed with good grace.

Celine
peeked out into the corridor to ensure that Dorothy had truly departed for bed.
She waited until Dorothy’s blue skirts disappeared around the corner. Satisfied
she turned back to find George standing near the revolving glass cabinet that
held various liqueurs, desert wines and cordials.

He offered
her a glass of Chartreuse. She shook her head, “I apologise, Lord Elmer, but my
head is aching dreadfully. I think I will retire early tonight. If you will
excuse me.”

A hint of
disappointment crossed his face before he covered it with an expression of
boredom.

Her feet
dragged as she moved towards the door. She wished circumstances had been
different and allowed her more time with him.

She looked
back at him one last time. This was goodbye. He would be gone the next morning
and perhaps they would never meet again.

He was busy
fiddling with his snuff box and didn’t notice her parting look.

She walked
to her room feeling a little guilty. She should have been a better host. After
all, he had no one to amuse him all evening … but what else could she do? Not
only was it improper for her to spend all evening with him alone and
unchaperoned, it was also the only hour that she got to herself when she could
pursue her own agendas. Time was short, and once Penelope gave birth, she would
no longer have an excuse to stay in London. It would be a year before she
returned to the city for a season and by then it could be too late.

***

Exactly one
hour after leaving George in the saloon, Celine once again materialized on top
of the Grand Staircase. She appeared wearing a long black cloak that was meant
to conceal the wearer, and Celine believed herself to be well concealed.

She took
short cautious steps down the staircase, her trembling hands clutching three
short, fat tallow candles, while her eyes darted hither and tither. Like an
unseasoned creature who was reluctantly dipping her toes into the pool of
misconduct, she tiptoed her way towards the library.

It was
clear she was an amateur at the art of deception, for she was certain that if
she was found and her aim discovered, she would be ruined.

She was a
greenhorn, for fearful thoughts raced through her mind as she snuck down the
stairs, muscles tensed and ears pealed like a Yorkshire terrier for the
slightest sound.

She was a
dabbler in all things wicked because a distant thump and a fluttering moth
almost had her screaming and flying back to her room.

She was
certainly a novice, for a finely skilled miscreant would never meander down the
hallway like an ill tutored, badly dressed assassin at nine in the evening.

Nine o'
clock is not a frightening hour. Nor is ten or eleven. The sort of fear that
Celine was experiencing rightly belonged to any hour after midnight and before
five in the morning. And yet she was shaking, her resolve tested over and over
again by the flickering lamps that lit her path casting shadows that loomed,
trembled and leaped at her every now and then.

She
wondered why sneaking around the Blackthorne Mansion had not become easier.
With practice one would have expected it to, but it hadn’t. She still felt as
terrified as she had the first time when she had snuck into the library three
days ago.

Her entire
journey from the top of the Grand Staircase to the library had been emotionally
taxing but uneventful. The million eyes that she had imagined were following
her every move melted away only after she had pushed open the large wooden doors
and entered the library.

The
darkness and the familiar scent of tobacco, leather, books and ink calmed her
nerves. Feeling slightly silly she pulled out a tinder box from her pocket and
lit a candle. Firmly closing the door behind her she quickly moved towards the
back of the library.

The library
was a large circular room located on the ground floor of the family wing of the
Blackthorne Mansion. The front of the library contained a pleasant reading area
with two sofas piled high with plump cushions along with a day bed, a few
chairs and a large wooden table.

Not a speck
of dust sat on the books placed on the tall ornate wooden shelves, and if one
pulled out
Romance of Hoggy
sitting on the fifth row of the third
bookshelf, then a secret entrance to the basement would open up behind the main
fireplace.

Celine did
not know about the secret entrance and nor would she have cared. She nipped
smartly to the back of the library, her stride purposeful and confident.

The back of
the library was slightly different from the front. For one thing the back was
chillier, darker and somehow smelled mustier. The sort of smell that one gets
when one enters a dungeon. The back had no windows. A cold fireplace sat in the
corner, and in front of it was a long unattractive wooden table with four hard
backed simple chairs.

Celine set
the candle down on the table and walked up to the fireplace, which by the looks
of it hadn’t been used in years. She reached up into the chimney and felt
around the sides. Almost immediately she found what she was looking for. She
pulled out the cloth made out of thick blue wool that was hidden in a crevice
and took it to the table. Thereafter, she sat down and taking out the papers
from the bag spread them on the table and got to work.

Half an
hour later she set her quill down and stretched. She was halfway through
rolling her neck when a deep voice behind her said, “It appears to be a love
letter … or rather a love poem.”

Celine
squeaked and sprang out of her chair, “Lord Elmer, give me that,” she growled,
noticing the paper in his hand. Somehow he had snuck up behind her and stolen
one of the sheets from the table.

“Not yet,”
George grinned, lifting the letter above his head and well out of her reach. He
squinted at the paper and started reading aloud. “For Celine, my beloved
kitten, here is a love poem.” He frowned, peered at the writing and then
chuckled. “It is a love poem titled, ‘My Darling Dormouse’.”

“Lord
Elmer, be reasonable. This is not proper,” Celine pleaded.

“I am
unreasonable, and I happen to enjoy everything that is improper,” George
replied cheerfully. “Besides, the title has intrigued me.” He cleared his
throat and started reading,

Your
green eyes are bright,

They
take me on a flight,

Celine suddenly
leaped at him, “Give that back now, my lord, or I will scream.”

He ignored
her and swiftly moved until the table was between them. She chased him around
the table, and he continued to read whilst easily evading her,

Your
green eyes are bright,

They
take me on a flight,

To lunar
land.

Your red
lips they pout,

Like a
bird’s snout,

While
pecking the blue insects to death.

He smiled
and tucked the poem in his pocket. “My dear Miss Fairweather, that poem should
not have ended like that. A tad depressing, wouldn’t you say? And your poet
seems to have given up on the last line. The beginning shows promise and the
bird with the snout … err ….”

Celine dug
her nails into his arm, “I am a very peaceful person, my lord. I don’t want to
hurt you, but I might just have to. Please be a gentleman and give me back the
letter.”

“But things
have just become interesting, Celine. I thought you were a charming, slightly
pretty, level headed young miss. But what’s this? A young girl praised for
being sensible, taking care of the confined duchess, a respectable young lady
who one would think was too old for fanciful notions has gone and fallen in
love with a poet. A poet called … let me see … ah yes, Philbert.”

Celine
stepped away from him. Her eyes turned cold. “What do you want?”

“A lot of
things, but let me start with a question,” he replied. His hand shot out and
gripped her chin. He tilted her face this way and that, his brows furrowed in
confusion. “Philbert the poet wrote this love poem for you. It clearly says so in
the beginning so no point in denying it. He loves you and yet he writes those
lines completely forgetting that your eyes are, in fact, brown. Why?”

Celine
scowled and wrenched her face away, “Sometimes they look green.”

“Dark brown
eyes can look green?” he asked sceptically.

“Fine, he
was just learning to write, and he said that green is far more romantic a
colour than brown.”

“I beg to
differ,” Lord Elmer said softly.

Her eyes
shot up to his and she froze. His eyes were blue. Blue like an ocean on a sunny
day, and she was a river plunging into its depths ….

He blinked.

She came
crashing back to earth.

They both
cleared their throats.

“Wha—” she
started to say.

“I was—” he
said at the same time.

Again
throats were cleared. Finally she asked, “The letter?”

“I will
give it back to you,”

She smiled.

“But,” he
said.

The smile
faded.

“You have
to find a way for me to stay here at the Blackthorne Mansion until Lord Adair
returns from his trip abroad or else ….”

Celine paled,
“I cannot. Lord Elmer, what you ask is impossible. Penelope is currently
indisposed, and the duke will never allow a strange man to stay here at such a
sensitive time.”

“Find a
way,” he said stubbornly.

“Be
reasonable, Lord Elmer. How can I convince the duke? I am Penelope’s younger
sister and here to help with her household duties and that is all. This is not
my house. I am a guest just like you—”

“Not
exactly. You are the duchess’ beloved sister.”

“Stepsister.”

“Beloved nonetheless,”
he argued. “You grew up with her. Surely you know a way of convincing her.”

“I don’t,”
she said crossing her arms. “I can however suggest the stables to you as an
excellent lair. The hay loft above the stallion named Sultan is particularly airy.
I won’t tell a soul, I promise.”

“Please?”
he begged opening his eyes wide, “I would rather have a feather bed.”

“No.”

“I refuse
to share space with horses. Think of my excellent lineage,” he reminded her
haughtily.

“The horses
are the best in England. They are also of excellent lineage … practically
royalty. You will feel at home,” she smirked.

“I am not
going back to my father’s house.”

Something
in his voice made her look up. She bit her lip and frowned.

Noticing
the slight softening in her expression he grabbed her hand. “Will you hear my
plight? It is very sad.”

Celine eyed
his doleful face, and her heart in spite of herself squeezed in sympathy. She
nodded.

A brief
smile touched his lips. He led her to the chair and gently pushed her back into
the seat. “I was thrown out of Oxford—” he began.

“I know,”
she interrupted, “the duke told us.”

“He did?”

“Yes, when
you were asleep this afternoon.”

“Did he
tell you anything else?”

“You were
shipwrecked, kidnapped—”

“No, about
my family?”

“Your brother
was meant to be the heir, but his Spanish bride insulted the king. Your father
is not fond of you—”

“What about
my mother? Did he say anything about my mother?”

“Mother?
No.”

“I knew
it.” he exclaimed.

Was it
relief or pain in his voice? She couldn’t make it out, for he had moved into
the shadows away from the candle light.

“My
mother,” he said unhappily,” died when I was but a young lad.”

“How
young?”

“How old is
Dorothy?”

“Thirteen.”

“Yes, that
sounds about right. I was around her age when she died.”

“How did
she die?”

“I am
telling a story here. Have the courtesy to let me tell it my way. Do not
interrupt,” he said irritably. “Now, my mother was happiness, love and joy
bundled up together in a neat little round package. We loved her. All of us loved
her. Each one of us loved her. In fact, even her lady’s maid loved her. One day
I overheard a footman cooing in the chambermaid’s naked ear about a circus that
had come to town. I had never been to a circus and being a young, sane boy I
naturally wanted to go to this circus. However, my father refused outright.”