Amanda Scott (20 page)

“Do you think I do not care, sir?”

“Have you spent a single evening at home this week?”

“Have you, sir?”

“We are not discussing me.”

“Well, I do not believe we ought to be discussing me, either, if it’s all the same to you. I am quite grown up, whether you like to admit it or not, my lord, and you have not the slightest authority over me, nor can I think for a moment why you should concern yourself with my comings and goings.”

“I concern myself with my mother’s peace of mind.”

“Do you, indeed? No one who knows the least thing about your reputation would credit that, I believe. You show not the smallest concern for her ladyship by your own actions. Why, only Tuesday evening, at the opera—”

“We will leave my actions out of this discussion, if you please,” he cut in swiftly.

“But I do not please. Really, Greyfalcon, you have misjudged your victim in this case, I fear. My father has said I may do as I please, and I believe his word must carry more weight with me than yours.”

“You make a spectacle of yourself,” he said sharply. “Do you honestly think any one of the gentlemen who fawn about you has serious intentions toward you?”

“No,” she replied, goaded despite her determination not to allow him to irritate her, “I believe they dance attendance on me merely because I am an inmate of this house. Some of them no doubt believe that you have some sort of interest in me, and thanks to your own fascinating reputation, that must make me an object of some interest to them. Others simply wish to be satellites in your orbit, one way or another. I provide them with an excuse to do as they wish. For the most part, you are the person these minions court, sir, not I. But I would be a fool if I did not take advantage of their attention when it affords me such a grand opportunity to meet eligible young men. My portion is not large, but neither is it despicable.”

“That is enough, Sylvia.” He held up his hand, and despite herself she fell silent. When there was only more silence, it took all her self-control to keep from nibbling on her lower lip, to keep her gaze fixed firmly upon his chin. She could not meet his eyes, for she knew without his saying another word that he was angry again, and she did not know precisely why. She had done nothing of which even the highest stickler might disapprove, except enjoy herself.

“You cannot honestly believe that I have neglected Lady Greyfalcon,” she said at last when he still did not say anything further.

“No.” He turned away, walking toward his desk, but he turned back again before he reached it. “You cannot truly expect me to believe either that
you
believe all the attention you receive is due only to your presence in this house. I am not such a fool, Sylvia, and neither are you.”

“Perhaps not all the attention, but a good deal of it,” she said quietly.

He looked at her. “Lacey is certainly not the man for you.”

“I like Mr. Lacey. He amuses me.”

It was as though she had touched a candle to dry straw. “Dammit, Sylvia, I won’t have it! That man is a fortune-hunter, a gamester, a loose screw. In short—”

“In short, sir, he is one of your good friends.”

“That has nothing to do with anything. You ought not to know my friends, and that’s the long and short of the matter. Where is your loyalty to Christopher’s memory, for God’s sake? Just what would he think of the rattles and loose screws you’ve been encouraging to dangle after you, may I ask?”

“No, you may not ask, for it is not any business of yours, Greyfalcon.” The tears that leapt to her eyes only exacerbated the anger she was feeling. “I am your mother’s guest; yet you persist in treating me like a child over whom you have some sort of control. You do not have the right, sir, as I have told you over and over again. For you to throw your brother’s name in my face as you have done today is as bad as if I were to fling in yours the fact that by your own actions you precipitated your father’s death.”

He stared at her. “I had nothing whatever to do with my father’s death.”

“Nonsense, of course you did. Merciful heavens, sir,” she said when she saw the expression her words had brought to his face, “you didn’t know?”

His face was white. “Tell me.”

“Your gaming debts,” she said reluctantly. “The night you dropped twelve thousand at Brooks’s. Your father heard about that.”

“My Uncle Yardley—”

“Your father would have heard from someone, my lord. The only way he would not have heard is if it had never occurred.”

“Not occurred—” He seemed to be in a daze.

Sylvia gave herself a shake. “Look here, Greyfalcon, I am sorry if I have upset you, but I have told you no more than the truth. If you must take it upon yourself to lecture me on my behavior, it does seem to me that you ought first to look to your own. Persons living in glass houses … But that is all I should say on that head. I’ll leave you now. Good day, sir.”

He said nothing more, and she took herself out and upstairs, feeling a little as though she had been part of some sort of anticlimax. She also felt guilty, for she had led him to think that she held him responsible for his father’s death. “And I don’t,” she muttered to herself as she entered her bedchamber and rang for Sadie. “Not in the least.”

It also occurred to her that she had not reacted the way one might have expected her to react when he had flung that bit about Christopher in her teeth. Surely, it hurt, but it was not memory of Christopher that caused the hurt. It was the fact that Greyfalcon could say such a thing to her. On the other hand, she had retaliated in kind. Perhaps she ought to apologize for that. Before her maid had arrived to help her dress for the evening ahead, however, she had managed to convince herself that it would do him no harm to stew for a while. Heaven knew his behavior could do with some improving.

She had a wonderful evening, because for once Reston was tied up with his own affairs and Lady Ermintrude was with friends. That meant Sylvia and Joan could enjoy themselves with their usual male coterie without concern for anyone’s critical eye upon them.

“This evening has been lovely,” Sylvia confided in the carriage on the way home. “I declare I am exhausted and will no doubt sleep until noon.”

“Well, yes, I suppose it was nice,” Joan agreed. She was silent for a moment, then added, “I didn’t miss Aunt Ermintrude, but I do wish Harry hadn’t had to go to that meeting of his. It is such a bore when he cannot go with us.”

Sylvia stared at her. “But all he does is cast disapproving glances at us, and neither of us can talk for as much as two minutes alone to a gentleman without Harry’s approaching to see if we want orgeat or some such thing. Really, Joan, I cannot imagine how you abide it.”

“Yes, he is rather jealous, is he not?”

“You like it,” Sylvia exclaimed. “For goodness’ sakes, Joan, how can you like to be watched like that?”

“Once he knocked a man down for pushing one of my curls off my shoulder,” Joan said with an impish grin. “It was really too bad of him, for no one else asked me to dance that entire evening—well, not until we had gone on to another party, at all events.”

Sylvia blinked, thinking over this new side of her friend. “I don’t believe I should like a man to keep such a guard on me,” she said. “In fact, I know I do not like it. Only look at Greyfalcon. I bristle like a hedgehog guarding his worms when he attempts to interfere with my pleasure.”

“Yes, well, you don’t love him, do you.”

It was a statement, not a question, and Sylvia was glad for the darkness inside the carriage, for she had not the least notion what her countenance might betray. She didn’t love Greyfalcon. Certainly not. The very notion was absurd.

Joan made no attempt to break the silence, and just as Sylvia was thinking she really must say something, the carriage swung in next to the flagway and came to a halt, the footman leaping from his perch to swing open the door.

“Alfred will see you up the steps, dearest,” Lady Joan said then. “Come to me in the morning. We must discuss what we intend to wear to the Carlton House ball.”

“But that is weeks off yet,” Sylvia protested, laughing.

“One cannot plan too far ahead,” said Joan simply, “and besides, ’tis little more than two weeks away. Everyone will be there, Sylvie. We don’t want to be despised for dowds.”

Laughing again, Sylvia agreed to call at Reston House the following morning and went up the steps with the footman at her side. Before they reached the door, it was swung open by the porter, who had evidently heard their arrival, and upon entering the hall, Sylvia noted that the door to the library stood ajar. There was a warm glow of light within, but she told herself she felt no urge to enter. That no one invited her to do so was rather disappointing.

The following morning she was only too glad to take herself off to Reston House, for Greyfalcon was in the breakfast parlor when she went down, which was unusual; normally he would have broken his fast hours before and gone to his club. He did not look as though he was enjoying himself.

Her father was also there, which was not so unusual. Lord Arthur enjoyed reading late into the night, and he had been taking advantage of his sojourn in London to acquire more books and to visit a number of museums. Fortunately, he seemed in a mood to chat, for Greyfalcon did not. Indeed, the earl’s silence was nearly grim.

“Papa, I cannot tell you how surprised I am that you have stayed in town so long,” Sylvia said into that silence.

Lord Arthur looked at her in surprise. “But we have not been here so long, my dear, and there is so much to see and to do. Today, I go to the British Museum. Her ladyship informs me that there is a new exhibit there that she wishes to see.”

Sylvia had all she could do not to exclaim aloud at the thought of Lady Greyfalcon willingly attending an exhibit at any museum. So certain was she that her parent had made some sort of error that she was still racking her brain in an attempt to think of a tactful way to tell him so when Lady Greyfalcon herself walked into the breakfast parlor, looking particularly becoming in an elegant walking dress of black bombazine trimmed with sable.

“Goodness, quite a family party,” she said as she raised her lorgnette to scrutinize the offerings on the side table. “Just some tea and toast, Alexander,” she said to the footman as she turned to take her seat at the table. “Nothing more.”

“Very good, m’lady.”

She looked at Sylvia. “That’s a becoming rig, my dear. The blue sprigging in that frock makes your eyes look blue rather than gray, and the darker blue sash is a nice touch. Don’t you agree, Francis?”

The earl looked up from his plate, seemed to hear the echo of his mother’s words in his memory, and gazed obediently at Sylvia. “Very nice,” he said, turning his attention back to his beefsteak and eggs.

Lady Greyfalcon looked at him more carefully, seemed about to remonstrate with him, then looked at Sylvia and smiled instead. “Where are you off to this morning, my dear?”

Sylvia told her, glancing at Greyfalcon to see if he would object, but he paid her no heed at all. Indeed, his behavior took the edge off her pleasure, and things were no better when it became clear to her in the next few days that he apparently meant to say nothing to her that he could avoid saying.

“It isn’t so much that he isn’t speaking to me,” she confided to her friend after nearly a week of this treatment. “It is more as though my activities have ceased to interest him. No, no, that is not what I meant,” she added hastily when Joan looked at her quizzically. “I meant that having made such a fuss before over the gentlemen who visit me, it is a trifle odd that he now says nothing at all. Why, only last night, at Lady Jersey’s Roman supper … Oh, I can’t explain what I mean.”

“Do you speak to him?” Joan asked, her eyes twinkling.

“No. Why should I? I would most likely only say the wrong thing and make him angry again. I may wish he would speak civilly to me, but I don’t wish to have him caviling and carping again, I assure you.”

“Did you say the wrong thing before, Sylvie? You didn’t tell me about that.”

Sylvia shrugged, reluctant for once to confide in her friend. At the same time she wondered if Greyfalcon’s new attitude could be the result of nothing more than the casual words she had spoken about his father’s death. Surely, what she had said to him was no worse than what he had said to her.

“Tell me about it, Sylvie.” Joan’s voice was gentle, and Sylvia knew that once again her countenance had betrayed her.

“It was nothing,” she said. “He doesn’t approve of all the racketing about I have been doing, and he said Christopher wouldn’t approve either. Well, that was a dreadful thing to say, don’t you think?”

Joan had not taken her eyes off Sylvia, and now she frowned. “’Tis not what I think that matters, dearest. What did you think? More to the point, what did you say to him?”

“I-I—” Suddenly it was difficult to explain, but Sylvia knew there was no use in telling Joan she didn’t wish to discuss the matter, for Joan would have it out of her one way or another. “I-I simply told him he ought not to say such things, that it was the same as though I were to fling at him the fact that his actions caused his father’s death.”

“Sylvia!”

Joan’s exclamation was not necessary, for even as she spoke, Sylvia saw Greyfalcon’s white face in her mind’s eye and realized how truly thoughtless she had been. At the time she had been too much taken up with the things he had said to her, with his attempt to curb her activities, with the fact that he had continually, since that first day at Brooks’s, attempted to interfere in her life. Now, in putting the matter so plainly to Joan, she saw and heard herself clearly for the first time. His words to her, though she had described them as cruel, had not touched her in the same way that hers had touched him. What she had said no longer bore thinking about.

She jumped to her feet. “I must go, Joan, at once.”

Joan made no attempt to stop her, and Sylvia reached Greyfalcon House less than fifteen minutes later, hurrying up the steps and into the hall.

“His lordship, where is he?” she asked the plump porter.

“Yonder, miss.” He shut the front door quickly and moved ahead of her toward the library, but in her haste to have the matter fixed, Sylvia didn’t wait for him to announce her. She merely pushed past him into the room.