Amanda Scott (21 page)

Greyfalcon, seated behind the large desk with a pile of papers in front of him, scrambled hastily to his feet. “Sylvia, what is it? Is something wrong?”

“Indeed, my lord, I must speak to you.” She glanced over her shoulder at the interested porter.

Greyfalcon signaled to the man to close the doors, and when he had done so, the earl gestured toward the upholstered Kent chair. “I’m glad you have come,” he said. “I owe you an apology for my recent behavior as well as for my hasty words—”

“No, Greyfalcon, I am the one who must apologize. You had every right to remind me of Christopher, for he was your brother, but I had not the least right to say what I did about your father. It was cruel, and it was untrue.”

“Yes, it was certainly untrue.” He had moved around his desk as she spoke, and he was now standing rather too close for her comfort.

She took a step backward, speaking hastily. “No one truly believed you were responsible for his death, sir. His temper was uncertain at the best of times—”

“Choleric is, I believe, the proper description of Papa’s temper,” he said, smiling down at her now. “But—”

“That’s an excellent description,” she said, wanting to have the whole matter over quickly but not wanting him to forgive her until she had made the matter completely clear to him. “His temper would have carried him off, soon or late. It is unfortunate that it was word of your debts that, that—”

“That did him in?” Greyfalcon didn’t wait for her to comment. Shaking his head at her, he said quickly, “When I agreed with you earlier that it was untrue, I meant that quite literally, my dear. There was no debt.”

She stared up at him, paying no heed to the fact that he had closed the distance between them again. “No debt?”

His hands came to rest upon her shoulders, and he looked directly into her eyes. “Foolish Sylvia, did everyone truly believe I lost twelve thousand pounds in one sitting and never mentioned it to anyone? Did no one, particularly your worthy sire, wonder how I paid such a debt?”

“I assumed you hadn’t paid it yet,” she said, her eyes wide. “I did ask Papa once, and he said he had had no word of any twelve thousand pounds, so I just assumed that no one had yet asked him to authorize payment.”

“Foolish beyond permission,” he said, giving her a little shake. “Do you not know, my dear, that gaming debts are quite sacrosanct? Your father ought to know, if you do not, for he knows that if I’d needed such an amount I’d most likely have had to apply to him for it out of my capital. Whatever reputation I might have, no one has ever accused me of playing and not paying. No, Sylvia, if anyone is to blame for sending my father into an apoplectic seizure, it must be my Uncle Yardley for getting his facts wrong.”

“Did you never lose so much, then? How could he have made such an error?”

“Oh, I lost all right, but I had won nearly fifteen thousand before that. I ended the night three thousand to the good.”

“Gracious, but surely Lord Yardley must have known that, sir?”

Greyfalcon shook his head. “I have thought the matter over carefully, and it is entirely possible that he knew only about my losses. It was one of those marathon sessions that are so common at Brooks’s, you know. At least, you don’t know, but you may take my word for the fact that they are quite common. I was playing with several friends, but Lancombe seemed for the first half of the evening to have the very worst luck possible, while I could do no wrong. I won the bulk of the fifteen thousand from him. Then the cards turned. I don’t know how it is that they seem sometimes to have minds of their own, but from eleven on, I could do nothing right.”

“I have heard that that sometimes occurs,” Sylvia said. “Is that not a good time to quit playing?”

“It is not particularly good form, my dear, to quit while one is so far ahead, but I did do what I could to confuse Lady Luck. We changed decks, first of all. I even followed Lacey’s advice and turned my coat wrong side out, which only shows that I was drinking more heavily than I usually do, which may account for the whole, now I come to think about it. Nonetheless, I lost twelve thousand in less than five hours, and I seem to recall my uncle leaning over my shoulder toward the end, telling me I ought to go home. No doubt he didn’t come in until I had begun to lose, and since most of the betting consisted of scribbling on Lancombe’s vowels and shoving them back to him—well, it is entirely possible that Yardley knew nothing of my earlier winnings. He must have gone straight home and written my father. And of course, even if someone had heard about what he told Papa, they would never have repeated it to me. Very few people except for those at the table would have known the whole tale anyway. And as you said earlier, it scarcely makes any difference. Something would have sent him off soon or late, true or false.”

Sylvia looked down at her shoes. “Still, I ought not to have said such a thing to you.”

“It was a shock,” he said quietly, “but it is as well that I know the worst, and I had said quite as hurtful things to you. I am not proud of that, Sylvia.”

His hands still rested upon her shoulders, and he still gazed down into her eyes. There was a look in his eyes now that was unlike any she had seen there before, a look that sent shivers racing along her skin that were completely at odds with the strange warmth that filled her from within. Both sensations were new to her, both were most unnerving. She tried to meet his gaze directly and found it impossible to do so. She was entirely too conscious of his large hands on her shoulders, of his large body so close to hers.

Sylvia swallowed carefully, then drew a long, steadying breath and straightened her shoulders, moving a little away at the same time. Fortunately, he seemed to realize that he ought not to be holding her so, and he made no effort to retain his grip upon her shoulders. “I-I am glad we have had this little talk, sir,” she said carefully. “I must go now, for I promised her ladyship that I would drive in the park with her this afternoon.” And without another word or look, she fled.

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING SYLVIA
entered the breakfast parlor to discover her host and hostess engaged in a lively discussion.

“You cannot simply ignore these invitations, however much you might like to do so, Francis. ’Tis most unbecoming behavior. They are neighbors from home, and you simply must not offend them.”

“Dear me,” said Sylvia, smiling when they both looked at her. “Shall I come back later?”

“No, of course not, my dear,” replied Lady Greyfalcon. “You shall help me convince Francis that he must accept Mrs. Mayfield’s invitation to escort her to the opera at Covent Garden this evening. The poor woman has been left in the lurch by her usual companion, and she has written begging Francis to do her the honor. He cannot refuse.”

“He can, and he will,” retorted her dutiful son. “Mama, that woman and her daughter nearly drove me to distraction in Oxfordshire, and now they are doing their possible to make my life miserable here. I do not intend to encourage them.”

“Mrs. Mayfield has always been very kind to me,” said the countess stiffly. “She never once showed anything but a cheerful face when she visited me, though heaven knows I was anything but a cheerful hostess. She bored me, and I never failed to let her know as much, and she was too kind to neglect me, nevertheless. I owe her some extraordinary kindness.”

“Then you go to the opera with her.”

“Francis, I shall not allow you to speak to me so.”

“And quite right, too,” interjected a new voice from the doorway. Sylvia stepped aside to allow her father to enter the breakfast parlor. “Just came along to see if you’d like to drive to Richmond Park this morning, ma’am, but I must say, Greyfalcon, that is not the way for a gentleman to speak to his mother, and I do not scruple to tell you so to your face, sir.”

Greyfalcon’s gaze met Sylvia’s. “Would you like to add your mite before I apologize?”

She grinned at his obvious discomfort. “No, sir. I doubt it would be necessary.”

“It isn’t. Mama, I do apologize. I ought never to have spoken so rudely; however, I do not propose to encourage Miss Mayfield to think she has added my name to her list of conquests, and that is what these constant invitations are in aid of. Do you realize they have invited me to partake of nearly every pleasure imaginable these past weeks? If they are not desiring my presence at their dinner table, they are demanding my escort to Almack’s.”

“But, surely, they would not expect you to go to Almack’s when you are in mourning for your father,” Lady Greyfalcon told him. “You are exaggerating, Francis, are you not?”

“No, ma’am, I am not. They do not seem to believe that I am truly in mourning, I fear. My lamentable reputation, you see.” He shot a glance at Sylvia just then, and she was certain she must look guilty, for his eyes narrowed suddenly.

She had not said or done anything since coming up to town to encourage Lavender Mayfield, but that had been only because she had quickly become aware that encouragement was unnecessary. Never had a citadel been so besieged as Greyfalcon was. The young lady and her redoubtable parent called nearly every day at Greyfalcon House, ostensibly to pay their respects to the countess; however, if she was not at home, they did not hesitate to ask for his lordship, giving as their excuse their desire that he deliver a message to his mama. Sylvia had been invited more than once to join them in an outing, and whenever she had accepted, she had suffered their cross-questioning on the subject of Greyfalcon.

Lady Greyfalcon spoke up just then, interrupting her thoughts. “I daresay, Francis, that your reputation is to blame for a good deal, but I have already told Jane Mayfield that I was certain she could count on your escort tonight. There can be nothing amiss in your visiting the opera. Indeed, I know for a fact that you have gone many times. And this is a tragedy, not a comedy, so no one will say you ought not to go.”

When Sylvia refused to meet his gaze, Greyfalcon glanced at Lord Arthur and saw that the gentleman was ready to add his encouragement to her ladyship’s, so with a sigh and a shrug, he agreed to send a note to Mrs. Mayfield at once. Satisfied, Lady Greyfalcon allowed Lord Arthur to escort her from the room, leaving Sylvia alone with Greyfalcon.

She moved to the side table to help herself from the various dishes there.

“Shall I ring for a maid?” he asked.

“Yes, please. I should like some tea.”

He rang and gave the order, then stood to hold Sylvia’s chair for her. “I understand you had quite an evening for yourself last night,” he said then.

She glanced up at him. “Why, what did you hear, sir?”

“That you have a new conquest, rather a wealthy one this time.”

The maid came in with the teapot, and Sylvia waited until the girl had poured out her tea and departed again before replying, “I should think you would approve, sir. Lord Gilman is neither one of your gaming companions nor a fortune-hunter.”

“No, but he is certainly a loose screw,” said his lordship tartly. “Really, Sylvia, have you no discrimination? The man has morals akin to those of the Prince Regent. Indeed, he is one of Prinny’s dearest friends, and none of his highness’s servants or companions is fit to be seen with you. Where on earth did you meet him?”

“At Lady Cowper’s,” she said, spreading marmalade on a muffin and concentrating upon the task so she would not have to meet his steady gaze. She had not known Lord Gilman had such a reputation, but she could not doubt Greyfalcon’s word. He would know if anyone did. She wondered briefly if perhaps Lord Gilman was attempting to draw her interest in order to lay his hands upon the book. Whatever his purpose, she was not about to allow Greyfalcon to dictate to her. It was a bad habit of his, and she meant to break him of it.

“Were you with Reston?” he asked now.

“I was with Joan. Harry has been busy of late with politics. Joan says the Regent is making new demands. I daresay there are problems, as always, with regard to his debts. Joan says Harry seems to think things have bogged down a bit, mainly because the prime minister does not recall having made certain promises to the Prince that Prinny says he made.”

“Don’t try to change the subject, Sylvia. Even Joan ought to know Gilman’s reputation, and if you try to tell me that Emily Cowper introduced you, I simply won’t believe you.”

“I shouldn’t lie to you in any event, sir, but she did not. His lordship asked me to dance, and I found him amusing, so when he asked me to dance again, I agreed. If that caused people to talk, well, then they will talk about anything.”

“Of course they will talk about anything. Do you mean to say you accepted an invitation to dance with a man to whom you had not been properly introduced?”

Seeing storm warnings, Sylvia at once defended herself. “Of course I was introduced to him, though I don’t recall who introduced us. You know how it is at a ball, Greyfalcon. A gentleman is presented to one as an eligible partner, and half the time one doesn’t recall his name ten minutes later, and one never meets him again.”

“But you did meet him again.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, sir, let it go. I’ve no intention of marrying the man, even if he were to ask me to do so, which I am persuaded he will not. As for the other, if you think I am not capable of fending off the sort of offer you seem to think he will be so insulting as to make me, you do not know me at all. And if you want my opinion, I believe you raked up this conversation merely to stave off any attempt I might make to tell you how abominably you behaved toward your mother just now. I saw you watching me, wondering what I might say. Confess, Greyfalcon, I am right, am I not?”

He opened his mouth to deny it, but then he laughed instead. “I don’t think I really had such a motive,” he said, “but I’ll bow to your superior knowledge for the simple reason that I cannot in good conscience deny it now. Perhaps that was my intent. Lord knows I don’t wish to discuss it.”

“Shall you really go to the opera?”

“I must. I have promised Mama. But I tell you I think it a grave mistake to encourage the rapacious Miss Mayfield. That young lady is out to make herself a countess, and I don’t wish to find myself with a suit on my hands for breach of contract. She is just the sort to dream up such a thing and to believe it once she’s dreamed it up.”