Her Gilded Prison (Daughters of Sin Book 1) (6 page)

“She’s going away. Mrs. Wilcock said she was suffering fainting and dizzy spells and the only cure for such a malady was nine months’ rest.”

Sybil fixed Araminta with a beady look. Was her daughter taunting her? Was she saying what Sybil thought she was saying? Surely Araminta was not so naïve?

It appeared she was. Certainly it appeared one could be a minx and a jade without knowing a thing about the realities of life.

Undaunted by her mother’s lack of enthusiasm, Araminta went on, “Mrs. Hazlett is going away for nine months, according to Mrs. Wilcock, and taking her eldest daughter with her so they’re selling that lovely bay. Do you think if I ask Papa he’ll buy it for me?”

“Oh, I’m quite sure he will if it’ll benefit Mrs. Hazlett,” Sybil said with more venom than was wise. “Good night Cousin Stephen, girls.” With a curt nod, she turned on her heel and hurried up the passage.

Mrs. Hazlett’s lack of feeling up to the mark was something Sybil could empathize with. Her fainting spells and nausea were another thing altogether. Maladies she herself should be suffering—if only Humphry would let her.

She cast herself onto the bed as soon as she gained the privacy of her room and began to sob.

Humphry  had  deemed  an  heir  from  another  line  of  the  family  preferable  to intimacy with Sybil. Not even the familiarity of twenty years could overcome his aversion. She was a repugnant old woman who couldn’t even tempt a husband desperate to beget an heir.

Mary came in a few minutes later and helped her mistress out of her clothes and into her nightdress. Though she made soothing noises in response to Sybil’s obvious recent tears and told her there’d be better days ahead, she could not understand and Sybil was too proud to make a confidante of anyone, even a trusted retainer who’d been with her for more than a decade.

She was just drifting off to sleep when a cursory knock was followed by the door being pushed open. Araminta drifted across the carpet and sat at her dressing table, looking at her reflection rather than at her mother as she said, “Cousin Stephen is very nice, don’t you think? Much nicer than Edgar.” She shuddered. “I’d have hated to marry Edgar but now I’ll have a dashing husband and still call the Grange home and live here as mistress of the manor. You’d live in the gatehouse once you’re a dowager, of course.”

Sybil listened to Araminta’s excited prattle and through bleary, tear-filled eyes, watched her confident daughter uncoil her hair as she extoled the many virtues of the “next Viscount Partington”, who it never occurred to her wouldn’t see her as the best candidate for his viscountess.

“Perhaps  your  Cousin  Stephen  is  already  attached,  Araminta,  dear,”  Sybil suggested almost diffidently.

Araminta just shrugged her shoulders and replied, “Well, he’s not married and that’s all that counts.”

Finally the girl rose, her sigh of satisfaction suggesting that all was nicely in order in her world, and Sybil heaved a sigh of relief that she’d soon be able to close her eyes on this perfectly awful day.

But Araminta wasn’t done yet. “Mama, you will remember to tell Papa he must buy Mrs. Hazlett’s mare for me, won’t you?”

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B
y day three Stephen was still reveling in the excellent horseflesh beneath him as he tore through the woods that would belong to him someday.

Life was full of surprises but it would be hard to beat his elevation to all this. He cast his eye around the sweeping fields of golden corn, the beech wood to the east, the glistening lake with its picturesque rotunda just behind it and the squat but handsome house about half a mile away, which he would one day call home. Not to mention the young lady of the manor.

It was clear Araminta had set her sights on him. While he had to acknowledge this was on the basis of his recent expectations, there’d be few men not thrilled at such an alliance. She was exquisite.

Exquisite and willing. It seemed the ideal solution. His courtship would be short and straightforward and there’d be no surprises. He would sire sons who would inherit all this and he’d grow old in comfort. Respected and revered.

He did a quick mental calculation of his debts and tried to shake the considerable embarrassment occasioned by his recent loss to Sir Archie. He wasn’t quite sure how he was going to settle that—or explain it to Lord Partington.

As for Lady Julia, he’d tried his best to erase her from his mind. He’d been a fool. Anyone could see that. Hopefully only he would know it.

But the debt. He wasn’t at all sure how the viscount was going to react. Although generally genial, he was at other times distant and aloof.

Lady Partington, on the other hand, was like a sweet little peahen, always running an anxious eye over her daughters. Hetty, in particular, he noted. It was quite clear Cousin Araminta could look after herself but anyone could see Hetty would not make a similarly confident entrance when she was introduced to society.

He must remember to keep an eye out for potential fortune-hunters of the heartbreaking variety, for Hetty and Lady Partington were birds of a feather—tender- hearted creatures who needed extra bolstering. They reminded him of his dear cousin Annabelle, who’d made such a disastrous match.

The sudden flap of wings as a partridge burst out of the gorse in front of him turned his thoughts from peahens to the richer game he’d soon enjoy as the future Lord Partington. Like hunting parties in August for which he’d be renowned as the most generous of hosts with the most desirable wife.

Turning his mount for the home that would be some years in coming, he was again struck by his immediate pecuniary obligations.

Before his two-week visit ended he’d have no choice but to broach the subject with his benefactor.

It was with interest and more than a little curiosity that he was told upon arrival that Lady Partington desired to see him on a private matter “at his convenience” some time that day.

As he changed from riding dress into a new coat with boots zealously polished to disguise  their  age,  and  trousers  he’d  bartered  from  a  colleague,  he  hoped  his appearance sufficient to inspire confidence.

Confidence was required in any interview that dealt variously with money or marriage, and he rather suspected Lady Partington had something of importance to say upon one of these subjects.

Mary,  the  viscountess’  lady’s  maid,  eyed  him  with  some  concern  when  he presented himself, adding dubiously that he could wait in Lady Partington’s private sitting room while she sought out Her Ladyship.

So Stephen lowered his lanky form onto a delicate gilt sofa and was studying the amateur watercolors done by Lady Partington, when a rustle made him glance up at the paneled wooden door that led in from the passage. Waiting was always a tedious business when there were so many more interesting pursuits to contemplate, and the Grange offered an abundant supply. He could never be bored here. His Lordship had offered to take him on a tour of the estate later this afternoon after he’d returned from wherever it was he spent his mornings, and Stephen was looking forward to learning how to run things properly.

To his surprise, Lady Partington entered from a doorway hidden near the bed. Clearly unaware of his presence, she made her way directly to her writing desk, seated herself and then took down her inkpot.

Stephen  was  about  to  declare  himself  when  her  next  action  rendered  him indecisive.

With a heart-rending sob she leaned back, covering her face with her hands. When she dropped them and raised her eyes to the ceiling, her expression was desolate.

She must have heard something for she jerked her head around, crying, “Cousin Stephen!”

In a trice he was on his feet, his hand upon her shoulder, aware this was the second time he’d caught her at a disadvantage. “Lady Partington, forgive me but I was told to wait in your sitting room. Please don’t be angry.” For the wide-eyed horror she fixed upon him indicated the extent of her wounded pride.

He realized he’d been gently massaging the back of her neck, and stopped. Far too familiar an action under the circumstances but instinctive when he’d seen her distress. “I know you must deplore the reasons I am here,” he said, assuming her unhappiness must be related. “It is not easy to see everything go to a virtual stranger because you have only daughters, but despite my reputation, I intend to be as diligent as your husband is in my duties toward the estate.”

She exhaled bitterly. “If my husband were as diligent as you suggest, he might have his own son to whom he’d pass everything, but he has no wish to deal with me.” She heaved  in  another  shuddering  breath.  “I’m  sorry,  pay  no  heed,”  she  continued, gathering herself and pulling away. “This is very irregular. You should not see me like this.”

“I should not,” he agreed. “And I should not have tried to capture Lady Zena on the ledge either,” he added. “However I did and as you have no reason to be ashamed I hope you will forgive me.”

He  thought  she  might  turn  her  back  on  him and  show  him the  door  with  an imperious wave. Clearly she was contemplating it. Then she relented and met his determined, bolstering smile with an unsteady one of her own. Her hair was loose and he noted the rich gloss of it and the fact there was no sign of gray. Had she really intimated Lord Partington was insensible to her physical charms?

“That is in the past,” she said with brittle formality. “Thank you for your concern but if you’ll excuse me it is time for me to dress for dinner. We can discuss whatever it was that brought you here at some other time.”

Obediently he turned toward the door, hesitating to remark, “If you’ll forgive the impertinence,  Lady  Partington,  I  strongly  recommend  bold  colors,  which  I  believe would be more flattering to your complexion.”

He  indicated  the  dress  her  maid  had  laid  out  on  the  bed.  “The  color  and construction are decidedly matronly for one of your youthful looks.”

With a final bow, he excused himself, his mind running wild over what transgression Lord Partington was guilty of in the eyes of his distressed wife.

* * * * *

T
he household whiled away the hours after dinner in pleasant conversation with their guest and close neighbor rear admiral Hopton, whom Humphry had felt obliged to invite. Their fathers had been testy comrades and as the rear admiral took a paternal interest in Humphry’s affairs, the arrival of the heir-apparent was more than a passing social interest.

“Good  strong  chin,”  the  rear  admiral  wheezed  into  Sybil’s  ear.  “Not  like  that namby-pamby Edgar. Good thing Corunna took care of him.”

Sybil didn’t reply. She was ashamed that she tacitly agreed with the sentiment that her nephew’s death during the bloody Peninsular campaign was a godsend for Humphry and the Grange.

The admiral’s next sentence heated her cheeks. “Bit peremptory of your husband to bring in reinforcements when you should be able to provide one of your own.” The rear admiral had been raised in a more down-to-earth era and no doubt considered the implication of his sharp-eyed study of her middle region not at all ill-mannered.

Sybil managed to swallow her sherry without making any unladylike noises before murmuring, “My husband wanted time to groom Mr. Cranbourne for his role in case—”

“Aye, that’s right, in case he went the way of his old pater.”

Sybil did not comment. Humphry’s father had drowned when in his cups, in a barrel of brandy, at the tender age of forty-five. “Not likely. In fact, your husband would do better if he were more like the old pater. But this Mr. Cranbourne. Is he likely to go his mother’s way? That’d be more my concern. Little strumpet, Miss Bessie Brayford was in her day. Aye, no credit to her sex, that’s what my mother said, but we don’t always listen to our mothers, do we? Your Miss Araminta doesn’t and I’ll warrant it won’t do her a jot of harm.”

The warmth of his glance as he gazed upon the young woman he’d dandled on his knee as an infant sent a pang of some unidentified longing through Sybil. Araminta, seated by the window, was holding court, Stephen appearing like a rapt disciple as he lounged  against  the  wall  and  listened.  Pride—and  something  else—raged  through Sybil. Her daughter’s beauty was breathtaking, as was her ability to take what she wanted in life without thought for the consequences. While Sybil wanted nothing but happiness for her eldest daughter, Araminta was not going to get Mrs. Hazlett’s gray mare. She was determined upon it.

The rear admiral’s interest was as admiring as Stephen’s. “The girl knows how to get what she wants. Thank the lord she’s not playing up to that sapskull Edgar, which she would be if he were here being groomed for the role of heir.”

“Araminta wants to make a good match this season,” Sybil murmured. “Mr. Cranbourne would be a very good match.”

“Two months ago he wouldn’t have been. No, Miss Araminta has an eye to the main chance, and good on her. Let’s just hope Mr. Cranbourne knows what’s expected of him. Young man’s been around. He knows how to please the ladies, no doubt about that,” the rear admiral observed.