Romancing the Countess (25 page)
She pretends well. How happy she appeared tonight at your side. And yes, if you must know, how jealous I was to watch you together.
As he’d done every Sunday since returning to Hampshire, Sebastian sat on the front pew of the church and listened to the vicar’s sermon. Today, it was about adultery. Not particularly something that he wanted to hear, but they’d been going through the Ten Commandments for the past few weeks. Vicar Peters had seemed most enthused about taking the Lord’s name in vain, but today the topic of adultery managed to excite him to red-faced proportions.
His voice became louder and louder as he spoke, until Sebastian began cringing away. It was even difficult to allow his thoughts to drift with the man’s voice booming within the small confines of the church.
Sebastian straightened in the pew. If Henry were here, he’d no doubt be covering his ears by now. But after bringing the boy to church a few weeks ago, Sebastian had learned his lesson. Henry wasn’t frightened of Vicar Peters, Sebastian, or God, for every attempt at keeping him quiet and still had been ignored. No, he was at home. Blessed, peaceful home, with his nurse attending to him.
“And that is why the Lord God demands that we are faithful. For just as we are faithful to our spouses, He expects us to be faithful to Him. Was He not faithful on the cross? Did he not—”
Sebastian winced, ducking his head to avoid a further assault on his ears. Thankfully, the sermon was soon over, the completion of the remaining rituals signaling it was time to leave.
Standing, he took a breath and prepared to greet his fellow parishioners. Once the rumors had begun regarding an affair with Leah, he’d made every point of being friendly and polite, disregarding their curious glances and sly whispers.
“Mr. Powell,” he greeted. “Mrs. Powell. A pleasure to see you this fine Sunday morning.”
Mr. Powell made a similar, inconsequential greeting in return, and Sebastian was about to turn away toward the Byars family when he saw Mrs. Powell shaking her head, tears in her eyes.
“Mrs. Powell?”
“Oh, Lord Wriothesly,” she said, reaching out but not quite touching him, her hand hovering above his arm. “I saw you over there in your pew. How today’s subject must have wounded you. If there’s anything Mr. Powell or I can do . . .”
Sebastian inclined his head, looking down at her in bemusement. “I apologize, Mrs. Powell, I’m not sure—”
Glancing at her husband who gave a short nod, she edged nearer, stood on her toes, and whispered—loudly. “We’ve all heard the news of Lady Wriothesly and Mr. George. Of their . . . being together.”
Sebastian stiffened. “Surely it can’t be recent news that my wife and my friend were together in the carriage accident which killed them both.” He stared at her, his jaw firm. “That is what you’re implying, is it not?”
Mrs. Powell’s eyes grew wide. “I—”
“Martha,” Mr. Powell said, taking more heed to Sebastian’s warning than his wife appeared inclined to do, for she continued talking.
“But . . . if it isn’t true, my lord—which of course I now realize it couldn’t be. It’s just shameful how quickly such rumors can spread. Was Mr. Peters not speaking of the evil of gossip only a while ago?” She smiled, a faltering curve of her lips, and lowered herself from her toes. She shook her head ruefully. “But it’s just as well you know, my lord. So you can be prepared should someone else mention it.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Powell. How fortunate I heard it first from you.”
Mrs. Powell nodded slowly. She appeared as if she might add something else, but her husband took her elbow and began leading her away.
“A fine day to you, Lord Wriothesly,” he said.
“And to you as well. A fine day.”
Goddamn it. How in the hell had the rumor started? How could he not have known about it earlier? Now it was clear why Vicar Peters had continued looking at him during his sermon—not because of the rumors of an affair with Leah, but because he, too, must have heard the gossip about Angela and Ian.
“Lord Wriothesly. How is little Henry?” Mrs. Harrell asked, pulling her two little towheaded girls behind her.
“Very well, thank you.” Sebastian looked at the girls, their names escaping his mind. Everything escaping except the reminder of Henry and the threat to him if the rumor about Angela and Ian was allowed to grow and mutate into something even darker. Thank God he hadn’t brought Henry, or the parishioners might have seen the blond boy sitting beside Sebastian and begun to wonder at the difference in their appearances.
Mrs. Harrell was saying something, but Sebastian didn’t hear a word.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Harrell, but I must go. Henry isn’t feeling well, and although his nurse is taking care of him, I promised to look in after him as soon as the service was over.”
“Oh, but I thought you said he was well.”
Sebastian had begun walking way, but paused to look back over his shoulder. “He is. I mean, better than before.”
“Well, then.” Mrs. Harrell smiled politely, though her wrinkled brow attested to her confusion. “Please give him our best wishes. We will be praying for him.”
“Thank you. Yes, of course. I will.”
Damn it. Sebastian wove his way through the throng of churchgoers as he headed toward the doors, acknowledging various greetings with a dip of his head and a smile. Damn it. Where had the gossip spread by now? Surely James would have alerted him to it if he’d heard anything in London. Passing through the doors, Sebastian looked at the line of people waiting to say their farewells to the vicar. Cursing beneath his breath, he stepped to the side and walked past them.
“Lord Wriothesly,” he heard Vicar Peters call.
Sebastian halted and turned, gritting his teeth. “My apologies, Vicar, but I must return home. Henry is ill today.”
He eyed the sky—a normal gray. Anytime. God would send a bolt of lightning down to strike him at any moment for lying to a clergyman. Perhaps two lightning bolts, since he’d also lied to Mrs. Harrell inside the church. Sebastian moved a little to the left, out of the shadow of the eave, creating a clear path from the heavens to where he stood. Then again, it could be a boon for God to strike him dead in front of the church, here before dozens of witnesses. That news, at least, might shift the attention away from Ian and Angela.
Vicar Peters frowned. “I understand,” he said. But his expression revealed more than godly concern; there was also pity there, deep in his gaze. He, too, believed the rumor about Ian and Angela.
Sebastian nodded and swung away, cursing beneath his breath. There was only one person to blame for this.
Leah George.
Sebastian stared at the sketch he’d begun in the evergreen garden at Linley Park. The surrounding details were filled in and painted now, but her face was yet to be completed. Over the past two months he’d drawn the slender arch of her eyebrows, the firmness of her chin, the straight slope of her nose. But her eyes and lips remained invisible, his mind unable, or perhaps unwilling, to commit them to canvas.
Working on her portrait was the only time he allowed himself to think of her. These moments late at night when Henry was in bed and even all the servants had gone to sleep were the only ones where he allowed his doubts to surface, allowed his lingering thoughts of Angela to fade as he imagined talking with Leah, smiling with Leah . . . kissing Leah.
Although he didn’t know how the rumors had skipped from their supposed affair to the affair between Ian and Angela, he knew that Leah was tied in to that speculation. No one else knew that he hadn’t arranged for Ian to escort Angela to Hampshire; James only knew the truth because Sebastian had told him.
And while he’d been fairly sure the rumors about Leah and himself would die down—and they had, for the most part—he had no idea how long it would take, or what damages would be done, before the gossip about Ian and Angela had run its course.
Sebastian reached out to the unfinished portrait, his fingers hovering over the faint line of Leah’s cheek. Slowly, he withdrew his arm and let it hang again at his side.
There were several things he could do. He could ignore the rumors, as he’d done with the ones about Leah. He could also deny Ian and Angela’s affair. But neither of those routes would cease the gossip immediately. And each day it continued, there was a chance that the next extension of the rumors would turn to speculation about Henry’s parentage.
Before even acknowledging the third idea as a fully formed thought in his mind, Sebastian wondered if it was actually something valid that would help stop the rumors, or if it occurred to him only because he desired it as an excuse.
But no—why would he want to seek her out, when he had worked so hard to forget her? When she had made it clear more than once that his attentions weren’t welcome. When, although he’d tried to forget Angela as well, he was still wounded by her betrayal.
Yet of the three ideas which came to him, it was this last one which appealed to him the most. Sebastian sat in his chair and studied the portrait, his mind readily supplying Leah George’s extraordinary brown eyes and decadent mouth.
Tomorrow, he would leave Hampshire and find her.
Leah smiled at the seamstress who had first showed her the organza. She didn’t even know her name, which she regretted now. Surely it would have been better to call her by something other than “Miss” when searching for employment.
“Good afternoon,” she said brightly, aware that the assistant probably believed she was there for another gown since she was wearing a day dress of green poplin—nothing so serviceable as a worker’s attire.
Perhaps she should have gone around back and knocked on the door there? Swallowing, Leah placed her hands on the counter, then lowered them to her waist.
“I’m not sure if you remember me,” she began.
“Of course, Mrs. George. We remember all of our clients.” The seamstress smiled politely. “How may I help you today?”
“Actually, I’ve come to apply for a job.” There, she said it.
The smile on the assistant’s face remained in place, though her brows knit. “I beg your pardon—”
“I sew quite well. In fact, quite a few pieces of embroidery have been admired by the queen herself.”
“You are looking for a job, Mrs. George?”
Leah sighed, smiling again. A friendly smile, not her polite smile which hid all of her teeth. “Yes. I would like to join your little shop as a seamstress.”
As soon as the words escaped her mouth, the assistant’s mouth narrowed, her eyes losing some of their kindness. Oh no. Had that seemed patronizing? Little shop?
“I’ve much admired your work in the past, and I think, with a little instruction, I could learn to make beautiful dresses.”
The seamstress stared at her.
“And other things, of course. I needn’t be limited to gowns. I could make chemises and cloaks. Those wouldn’t be as hard, would they?”
“You want to be a seamstress?”
“Yes.” Leah looked about the shop, at the piles of books, the cluttered bolts of cloth. Everything had appeared so clean before when she’d come to buy a dress, but now that she really looked, she could see how another hand could help organize the front better. And if the front was just a little messy, she couldn’t begin to imagine what the back of the shop must look like, where they did all the work. “Or I could clean,” she suggested. “Keep things tidy. More menial labor before I improved enough to become a seamstress.”
The assistant crossed her arms. “I’m sorry, Mrs. George, but we do not need another seamstress.”
Leah shifted to her other foot. “Perhaps if I could talk to the modiste . . .”
“She’s busy with a customer.”
“Oh, I see. Hmm.” Leah tapped her fingers against her skirt.
“Good day, Mrs. George.” And just like that, she was being dismissed.
Leah tried to swallow, but a lump of pride caught in her throat. With an attempt at a smile, she turned toward the door. “Thank you, Miss—” She stopped and looked at the assistant. “Excuse me. What is your name?”
“Elaine. My name is Elaine.”
Leah nodded and smiled again. “Thank you, Elaine. Good day to you as well.”
The stench of manure took her breath away as she opened the door. Odd, but her senses had never seemed so overwhelmed by London before, when she had more money and a secure future. Now there was a beggar every few feet, their appearances only distinguishable by the limbs they were missing.
The sounds were louder as well: the jostling of horse harnesses, the hawking of the vendors. As Leah walked away from the shop, she recoiled at a drunken man who stepped into her path, the narrow slits of his eyes focused on her bodice. His breath reeked of spirits, his clothes of urine. He didn’t say anything, though, instead crossing the street without giving heed to where he was going. When an oncoming cart nearly trampled him, Leah flinched, her arms outstretching as if she could reach him and pull him to safety.
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