Her Gilded Prison (Daughters of Sin Book 1) (3 page)

In those interim four years, Humphry’s nephew Edgar had been next in line. Humphry had refused to recognize him. Edgar was a clodpoll, he said, and the mere fact he was Humphry’s heir was incentive for Humphry to live to one hundred so he could outlive his cork-brained nephew.

Sybil supposed the bullet that had knocked poor Edgar out of the succession was rather fortunate for everyone, not least this unknown Mr. Cranbourne. But really, it changed nothing for her. She was still the unwanted wife and, as far as Araminta was concerned, the superfluous mother.

Thank goodness Hetty still needed and appreciated her.

A rustle went through the congregation. Sybil opened her hymn book and stared unseeingly at the lines designed to bolster her joy in God’s world. Once again she tried telling herself everything would work out. Humphry would take a liking to young Stephen, young Stephen would be the perfect match for Araminta, and wedding bells would ring out by the end of the year, a lusty son cementing the succession nine months later.

On painful joints, Reverend Bicklefield climbed the steps to the pulpit while old Mrs. Henshaw shuffled in on her handsome nephew’s arm. Sybil glanced up at the whiff of camphor and glimpsed the flare of interest Hetty sent the young man from beneath her lashes as she focused attention upon her hymn book. Poor Hetty, for it was Araminta, sitting beside her, who caught his eye.

Araminta. Sybil sighed. Araminta was, without doubt, the most arresting young woman in the district. She’d turn anyone’s head, however the man who won her would have a tussle on his hands from the outset. Araminta was only happy when she had her own way.

She wondered what kind of man Mr. Stephen Cranbourne was. She knew nothing of him and had had little time to prepare for his arrival.

Reverend Bicklefield cleared his throat and hymn book pages rustled. Glancing at her youngest daughter, Sybil did not miss the smile Hetty flashed at Thomas Hazlett in the pew almost directly across from them. He nodded briefly in acknowledgement before his stern young countenance refocused on his own hymn book.

As far as Sybil knew, the young people had never spoken, although they crossed paths each Sunday.

A chill of foreboding made her shiver and she touched her knee to Humphry’s. Could Hetty...know?

Yet when her husband glanced across at her, she could not put into words her fears.

Thomas and his two sisters were Humphry’s children by his mistress Elizabeth Hazlett. That made Thomas Hetty’s half-brother yet surely Hetty had no idea the Hazletts,  who  sat  quietly  and  modestly  through  Rev.  Bicklefield’s  sermon  every Sunday, were her father’s “other” family.

Further study of Hetty reassured Sybil, even after Thomas, looking up and locking eyes with the girl, grinned self-consciously.

Thomas Hazlett would know, of course. Perhaps he was consumed by impotent rage, knowing Hetty and Araminta, his half-sisters, enjoyed an easy, privileged life while he and his sisters, as Lord Partington’s sideslips, must navigate a hurdle-strewn path, denied social acceptance. He’d be especially outraged if he knew—as he presumably did—the  reason he was not Lord Partington’s heir. His mother would surely have told Thomas that his father had buckled under family pressure and reneged on his marriage proposal to her. Shortly after Humphry had unexpectedly inherited the title he’d reluctantly married the much more “suitable” Miss Sybil Green. Yet even after such  betrayal  and  after  all  these  years  Humphry  and  Lizzy  Hazlett  remained desperately in love.

Two generations had suffered the unhappy consequences—and always would. It was of no account that Humphry had regretted his marriage almost immediately, or consolation to Sybil that he’d told her it was not her fault.

She  glanced  at  her  husband’s  impassive  profile.  Hard  to  believe  they’d  been married twenty years and produced four children, two of whom had died. Both sons. One stillborn, the other, George, only fourteen. The pain still sliced through her with the rawness of lemon juice in a fresh cut.

Still, it had taken Humphry three years after George’s death before he’d returned to Sybil’s bed. For so long she’d been half expecting it, for of course dear George’s death meant that without a direct heir the Grange and the fortune that went with it would go to Edgar.

Detested Edgar.

The memory of Humphry’s visit to her bedchamber made her cringe with shame. What a debacle it had been—Humphry plied with drink, mumbling that he felt like an adulterer as he tried to coax his unresponsive nether regions to perform.

It didn’t work. Nothing did, including Sybil’s extensive efforts to entice him with her dubious charms before she’d resorted to some crass pumping of Humphry’s flaccid member.

Oh God, this was not a reflection for church, but the embarrassment of being woken by her husband’s drunken snoring just as her maid had come in to draw the curtains still burned.

She looked at Araminta. Perhaps it helped to have no heart, she thought, immediately chastising herself for her uncharitable thoughts. Araminta was still so young. She’d learn.

Besides, Sybil had everything she could wish for. Except love.

Humphry didn’t love Sybil but he’d been kind in his way and he’d always tried to spare her discomfort. Not pain, for nothing could quite erase the hopelessness of knowing one would never know the love of a man.

Nor could she hate Lizzy Hazlett although on more than one occasion she’d wished her dead, wondering if perhaps then Humphry might be able to form for Sybil some small affection.

As the years passed, Sybil realized Humphry would never love anyone but Lizzy Hazlett, who had returned Humphry’s love by eschewing the respectable marriage she might have made as a solicitor’s daughter in order to become Humphry’s mistress. Her punishment had been social ostracism and she’d condemned her children to a dubious future. For what future was there for a bastard?

No, Sybil wasn’t the only one to suffer.

A ripple of interest stirred the congregation and Sybil turned her head as the door blew open to admit a new arrival. He was a stranger, she realized, taking in his large bulk. A dark, faceless cut-out against the sun, which lit him from behind.

As he progressed down the aisle, he paused as if suddenly uncertain, and a shaft of sunlight from one of the side stained windows lit up his face.

It was a handsome face, sensitive and finely rendered rather than rugged. Although young he had creases near his eyes denoting both good humor and experience. Active service perhaps. That turned a boy into a man, and this young man seemed both as his mouth, which had been pressed into a diffident straight line, curved up in recognition upon seeing Humphry.

She stiffened.

Stephen. It could be no other.

The young man bowed, his broad shoulders filling out his sober dark coat nicely; certainly in Araminta’s opinion, it would seem. Sybil registered the girl’s sudden awareness, the flare in her eye as she locked glances with the stranger, who was now looking directly at them, the first family of the district sitting according to their station in the front pew.

And at the expectation in his eye Sybil’s heart began to beat rapidly while her breath caught in her throat. Humphry was staring, a wary smile of welcome softening his features. It was impossible to determine his thoughts, even though he’d invited the newcomer here.

Stephen Cranbourne, Humphry’s heir, had finally arrived, having been summoned from the other side of the country after much searching.

And on first impressions he did not disappoint.

Sybil released her breath in quiet relief. She didn’t usually worry about Araminta but this was the young man Araminta had pinned her hopes upon. Araminta would marry Stephen and so remain mistress by proxy of the family estate where she’d grown up and which she would have inherited had she been born a boy.

She’d declared it since her twin George’s death and she’d declared it when she’d been hustled home from her first season after the terribly distressing affair that no one spoke of. “If I cannot be Papa’s heir I shall marry Papa’s heir.”

Araminta’s famous saying. Everyone knew it.

Now Araminta was staring into the eyes of the most attractive young man Sybil had seen in a while and the look in his was wary, uncertain, and, yes, very interested.

Sybil heaved another sigh of relief. All would go well now.

The organ ceased, the shuffle of parishioners settling in to listen to another fire-and- brimstone sermon and the church door was firmly closed.

Sybil  returned  her  attention  to  the  front,  following  a  sidelong  glance  to  gauge

Humphry’s reaction.

His expression was inscrutable, as usual. Never once in twenty years had Sybil ever intercepted a look between her husband and Lizzy Hazlett that suggested they spent almost every evening and many nights together.

Lizzy’s children were equally well trained.

Sybil lowered her eyes and pretended to pray while she dreamed of sinking into a tub of hot bath suds as soon as they returned. A megrim was coming on and she needed to ease the tension from her limbs. All she’d done since Humphry had come to her bed three months ago for a repeat performance of the debacle three years ago was worry about the future.

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“M
y dear Mr. Cranbourne, of course it is nonsense for you to put up at The Wren.” Lord Partington put paid to Stephen’s protests with enough conviction for Stephen to be entirely comfortable giving orders for his trunk to be conveyed to the Grange. “Did I not say it in my letter?”

The letter had been such a bombshell Stephen had refused to completely believe its contents until it could be confirmed, in person, by Lord Partington.

Some of the tense, wound-up feeling he’d bottled up inside relaxed.

Lord Partington hadn’t said how long he was to remain his guest and Stephen had wondered if in fact he’d been summoned on spec.

Fortunately it seemed he passed muster on first impressions. Lady Partington had been gracious, Lord Partington enthusiastic and judging by the gleam in the lovely Araminta’s eye, he could look forward to some mild flirtation.

He forced back an image of Lady Julia, determined to conduct himself with the utmost propriety, saying conversationally as he leaned across the small space in the carriage, “I remember meeting you when I was a lad and you were both little girls.” He smiled. “And now you are beautiful young women.”

Yes, he would conduct himself with propriety but he could afford to flirt. Lord Partington was riding on the box with the coachman and the ladies had made clear their welcome.

Cousin  Araminta  smiled.  “Nor  are  you  the  shy  young  lad  I  remember  who preferred to catch tadpoles rather than play with your cousins, Mr. Cranbourne,” she said coyly, perhaps for her mother’s benefit for her eyes flashed the subtext for which he’d been fishing. “I remember not all our dolls, dressed for the occasion of your visit, could entice you, although we tried to interest you in the elaborate rig-outs of one-eyed Miss Lilly Vanilly and bald Lady Jane Tremain. I hope you will be less interested in tadpoles this visit, Mr. Cranbourne. Or should I say Cousin Stephen?”

“Of course you should,” Lady Partington interjected. Araminta, beside her, fixed him with her curiously feline smile as she smoothed the folds of her dress. She managed to combine sexual allure with enough girlish innocence to please all parties in the carriage, for clearly her mother was unaware of the lures she was casting.

“I shall try to be less disappointing,” he replied. “Ten-year-old boys understand far less than young girls about what’s important but now my vocabulary is sufficiently broadened to be able to remark that your eyes are reflected by the color of your gown, whose fashionable name I believe is Pomona green.”

With blinding clarity he recalled the candlelight catching the lustrous folds of Lady Julia’s Pomona-green gown in their trysting closet and confusion washed over him.

What had she been about? He’d left their home rather as a street urchin who’d been invited into the inner sanctum and after supping and being cosseted like a princeling by a  lovely  queen  had  been  booted  out  into  the  night—but  with  promises  of  similar delights in a nebulous future.

This feeling was distinctly assuaged by the interest in Cousin Araminta’s assessing green eyes. He recalled Lady Julia’s remarks about the girl.

Could Araminta really have marked him out?

“Very clever, Cousin Stephen,” she murmured. “Where did you learn that, for you have no sisters?”

“I’m not a complete novice when it comes to ladies’ attire,” he responded. “Where were you when you got the letter, Mr. Cranbourne?”

Although it was the first question Cousin Hetty addressed to him, her mother caged her daughter’s hand and murmured, “It is not polite to be so direct, Hetty.”

“I’m not embarrassed by directness, Lady Partington,” he assured her, transfixed by

Miss Araminta’s full, enticing mouth.

To his surprise she met his look squarely.

“To answer your question, I had recently returned from Spain and was staying with an aunt in Dorset.”

“You were in Spain?” Hetty’s hazel eyes widened and she looked almost pretty with the light burnishing her light-brown hair. “That’s where our poor cousin Edgar died of a bullet wound.”

She gave a little hiccup of distress and Lady Partington patted her hand, adding by way of explanation, “Hetty was very fond of her cousin Edgar. They were great playmates when they were children. His death came as a shock to everyone.”

He registered the pain in Lady Partington’s eyes and the tightness of her mouth and shifted awkwardly.

How did Lady Partington regard the young usurper, Stephen Cranbourne, whose arrival reinforced the absence of her beloved George? Of Edgar?

“I am very sorry for your losses, Lady Partington,” he murmured, resisting the urge to stroke her lilac-gloved hand. It was true that women with flashing pomona-green eyes communicated instant excitement to his nether regions but gentle-natured, doe- eyed women like Lady Partington and her younger daughter appealed to the chivalric part of his nature.