One Forbidden Evening. Jo Goodman
the Henleys of my imminent arrival is only fair to them. It is my experience that such surprises are generally unwelcome. I will be relying on them to assist my own servants and provide such information as I require about the village and the locals. They will be invaluable if I need to hire more help. You are satisfied, I collect, with their quarterly reports to you?”
“Yes. What repairs they have suggested have always seemed reasonable, though I have entertained fears they err on the side of doing too little. It was why you will be doing me a very great favor by going there.”
“Surely you’ve had your steward visit from time to time.”
The countess shook her head. “Matters at Rivendale keep him occupied. There is also the property at Trent and the one near Nottingham. I have stewards for each. The house at Penwyckham is not part of an estate that requires overseeing tenants and lands, collecting rents and the like. I hope I have not misled you in that regard. I have to trust that the Henleys were as they presented themselves to me when I engaged them. I encourage you to write to me and inform me if I was wrong.”
“I suspect I will write to you about all manner of things, though I doubt any one of them will be about your making an error of judgment.”
Lady Rivendale gave her a skeptical look. “Is it that you don’t think I can make such an error or that you shy from confronting me?”
“There is no answer to that poser that will not put me in Dutch with you.”
“Not if you tell the truth, there is not. Lying, however, will put you in my good graces.”
Cybelline laughed. She picked up a triangle of toast, now stone cold, and bit it delicately. “Why have you not visited Penwyckham yourself, Aunt?”
“The house was left to me by my own aunt, my father’s sister. I could scarcely abide her. Upon reflection, it is more truthful to say I was afraid of her. I spent summers with her as a child when my parents were abroad. Her heart was hard—that is what I remember thinking as a child. Bitter, I would say now. I conceived the notion that she didn’t like me. Certainly she had no use for me. I don’t think I saw her more than a score of times in all of the summers I resided there. She spent a great many hours in the drawing room reading from her Bible. She took her meals alone and suffered my presence only when a melancholia was upon her.”
“She was unmarried?”
“Yes. And childless. Friendless, too, I think. It should not have been so surprising that she named me the foremost beneficiary in her will. I was a logical choice since I was her closest blood relative, yet I remember being shocked when I learned of it. The Sharpe house was mine along with a tidy sum for its upkeep. I thought at first I would sell it, but upon going there, I found I could not. Whatever the source of melancholia, it was not reflected in the house she kept. The rooms were bright and cheerful, and I remember that she was never tightfisted with candles or wood for the fires. The furniture was in good order, polished and freshly upholstered. The linens were all of fine quality. Still, while I could not bring myself to sell, neither could I remain there overlong.”
Lady Rivendale sighed. “I have told you perhaps more than you wanted to know, but there you have it. I fear I have not been a good steward of the property by leaving it for so long in the hands of others. The Henleys are not the first to care for the house and grounds. There was a Mr. Younger and a Mrs. Ayres before them. They were excused from service when I last journeyed to Penwyckham. It is putting it too mildly to say that the home came to a sad state while in their care. I promised myself that I would not allow it to suffer neglect a second time, yet I have done little to ensure that hasn’t come to pass.”
“Anna and I will set your mind at ease. After we have settled and made ourselves happy there, you will come to the country and see for yourself that the Sharpe house has all the light and life one might wish for.”
Lady Rivendale looked at Cybelline with some surprise. “I believe you mean it.”
“You doubt me?”
The countess was long in responding. She finally waggled one hand to indicate that what she was going to say was no longer of any consequence. “I have been possessed by the oddest thought since you told me you are ready to quit London.”
“Oh?”
“You will think me ridiculous since I have been encouraging you to leave for the country for well on five months now. It is only that I cannot rid myself of the notion that you are bolting.”
Cybelline’s features remained perfectly unchanged until a small smile reshaped her mouth. “You are right once again, Aunt Georgia.”
“Then you are bolting?”
“No, you’re right that I think you are ridiculous.”
Viscount Sheridan set his quill aside as the door to his study opened. That this breach of his sanctuary occurred without a warning knock was enough to indicate who would be there when he lifted his eyes. He smiled warmly, inviting the interruption to continue.
“Forgive me, Sherry,” Lily said, “but the post has arrived and I knew you would want this immediately.” She held up a letter between her thumb and index finger, waving it gently. “And I knew you would want to share its contents with me, so I have saved you the bother of hunting for me.”
“That was very good of you, though I like the hunt well enough.”
“Do not raise that eyebrow at me, my lord. I am able to understand your meaning without having it underscored in that particular manner.”
Chuckling, he lowered the offending eyebrow. The last time he’d hunted for his wife, he had finally run her to ground in a hayrick. She’d burrowed deep, and he’d burrowed deeper. All things considered, it had been a lovely way to spend the afternoon. But that was yesterday. Apparently Lily had other thoughts to occupy her for the nonce.
“Allow me to see what you have there,” he said, extending his hand. “Is Rosie napping?”
Lily laid the letter in Sherry’s palm. “Rose,” she said deliberately, “was playing with her toes when last I looked, and Nurse Pinter was sleeping. It seemed to satisfy them both.”
Sherry nodded absently. He was already looking at the elegant copperplate handwriting. “It’s from Cybelline.”
“Yes.”
He took a knife from his desk and slit the seal. “Will you not sit, Lily? Or would you prefer to read over my shoulder?”
“Do not tempt me.” Her smile held a hint of mischief that was reflected in her green eyes. She sat, taking the delicate Queen Anne chair on the opposite side of Sherry’s desk. Sherry, she saw, was already skimming the letter. A crease had appeared between his dark eyebrows, and he was tapping the knife tip against the edge of the paper, rattling it. Her heart sank a little. “She is not coming to visit, is she? What does she say, Sherry? Pray, do not keep me on tenterhooks.”
“I have not gotten so far. She says first that she is well. Anna also. Aunt Georgia is enjoying better health, having recently recovered from a stomach ailment. It seems she—Aunt Georgia, that is—was unable to attend the masque given by Sir Geoffrey and Lady Gardner in honor of their daughter’s debut. You will not credit it, but Cybelline attended.”
Lily did not credit it. “Are you certain you have not mistaken what she’s written?”
Sherry read it again. “She is quite clear. She attended without Aunt Georgia.”
“Even more extraordinary.” Lily pointed to Sherry’s knife. “Do put that down. I am in fear that it will slip, and you will do me grievous injury.”
He frowned. “I am more likely to do injury to—” He stopped, glancing down to where the knife was certain to meet the sticking place squarely between his legs. “Oh, yes, I see. That would be too bad for you.” He carefully set the knife aside and ran one hand through his dark cocoa-colored hair. His attention returned to the missive. “She