The Marquess’ Daring Wager Page 2

  The servant who took their coats in the cloak room was no less exotic. He was dressed as a Russian peasant in a shirt long enough to be used for sleeping and sporting intricate embroidery at the collar. Sybil was surprised to find her dance card – printed in both Russian and English – included a Polonaise. She did not have the first idea of the steps of that dance and wondered who would.

  The ballroom was a beautiful expanse with a polished marble floor in a black and white diamond pattern. The musicians were very amusingly dressed as Cossacks—they might have been ready to set off for war, had violins and flutes proved effective weapons.

  Sybil searched the room for somebody she knew and quickly spotted a friend.

  “Mama, there is Miss Darlington,” she said. “I should like to go over to her.”

  Lord Blanding said, “If you are certain you are all right, your mother and I will go in search of cards. I have high hopes that some new, Russian card game will be afoot. I may not prefer adventure at table, but I am always ready for a new hand of cards.”

  Sybil nodded and watched her parents make their way to the card rooms. She crossed the ballroom to Penny Darlington.

  “Miss Darlington,” she said.

  “Oh, do call me Penny,” Miss Darlington said, “I feel we have encountered each other so often that Miss Darlington sounds rather stiff.”

  Sybil was very much gladdened by the invitation. She’d felt rather friendless since Cassandra had married and it would be welcome to know another lady by her Christian name.

  “Then you must call me Sybil,” she said.

  “I hear Miss Knightsbridge, I mean, Lady Hampton, gets on well,” Penny said, “though I suspect you pine for her presence. You two were ever as thick as thieves.”

  “Indeed, we were,” Sybil said. “My mother and father are great friends with Lady Marksworth and her house in town is next door to ours.”

  “I know you defended her wonderfully while she went through that horrible circumstance. I quite admired it.”

  “What else can one do?” Sybil asked. “When a dear friend comes under attack, one must unsheathe one’s weapons.”

  “Lady Sybil, Miss Darlington.”

  Sybil slowly turned, knowing that voice as well as her own. Lord Lockwood.

  He was as handsome as ever. The lord was not as tall as some others but towered over her nonetheless and Sybil could not help but notice that the width of the sleeves of his coat hinted at powerfully built arms. In truth, it was not the first time she had surreptitiously glanced at his arms.

  “May I?” he said, holding his hand out for her card.

  Sybil was torn. Until now, she had felt justified dancing with the lord, as long as she did not accept his apology. She’d since given her word to her father.

  He gently tugged it. Sybil held fast to it. “I regret to inform you, my lord,” she said in a resolute tone, “that I can no longer allow you to claim a dance. My father does not sanction it.”

  Lord Lockwood’s face paled ever so slightly. “I see,” he said quietly. He turned and said, “Miss Darlington? May I hope your own father has not ranged himself against me?”

  “Not that I have been told,” Penny said, in an obvious attempt to lighten the tone of the conversation. She handed her card to the lord, who quickly filled in his name, bowed and retreated.

  “Should I inquire into the circumstances of that interesting exchange?” Penny asked.

  “You had better not,” Sybil said, “as I am not certain I could explain it. I will just say that it has to do with Hayworth family loyalty.”

  “Goodness,” Penny said, glancing at her card, “he’s put himself down for the Polonaise. I haven’t the first idea of the steps and suspect Lord Lockwood does not either.”

  Sybil felt a pang over it. It was just like Lord Lockwood to fail to shy away from something, simply because he had no idea how he would accomplish it. Other gentlemen might wish to avoid the unknown, but Lord Lockwood would throw himself in headlong. It was just what a Cornwall man might do, if a Cornwall man could ever be convinced to dance the Polonaise.

  For the first time in her life, Sybil felt it a very great burden to uphold the family honor.

  Chapter Two

  Richard had let himself onto a balcony. From there, he could see the long line of carriages still arriving to Lady Hathaway’s door. It was a damp evening and the coachman’s lamps blurred to yellow orbs in the heavy mist.

  So it had come to this. Lady Sybil’s father had now forbidden her to accept him as a partner at a ball. At least, so she claimed.

  He wondered if it was not the lady herself who had debated these many weeks and finally come down against him.

  No, it would be the old man. Richard was all but certain Lady Sybil favored him, despite her various scoldings over Miss Knightsbridge. In truth, he had grown rather fond of her condemnations, emanating as they were from her petite and charming person. Lord Blanding, on the other hand, did not just dislike him, he disliked his father too. Richard did not know all the details regarding the coolness between the two old gentlemen, he’d only been told a rather absurd account of some long-ago card game that he suspected his father had embellished for his own amusement.

  Whatever Lord Blanding’s feelings about his father, his dislike of the son on account of Miss Knightsbridge was not just. It had been Hampton who’d begun the whole stupid scheme against the lady. Now, the scoundrel was married to her and happily wandering around some Italian city with his new bride. Meanwhile, he was to be condemned. Never forgiven.

  It was outrageous.

  He would not stand for it.

  Richard paused. What did he mean by that, exactly? It was one thing to plan a surprise attack against the French, but how was he to overcome a lady’s condemnation? More difficult, how was he to overturn a father’s judgment?

  His friend Cabot came out to the balcony. “What do you do out here?” he asked.

  Richard stared at the heavy moon, just risen over the fog of London. “I am considering how one goes to war with a lady’s father,” he said.

  Cabot laughed. “You are ridiculous sometimes, old fellow. As for me, I will go back in. I’m to have the first with Miss Darlington and I shouldn’t like to be late. I am interested in dancing these days, not warring.”

  *

  Sybil should have been well pleased that Lord Burke had taken the first. After all, he was a genial fellow and she would appear quite respectable having been chosen by him. It was only that Lord Burke really did seem a brother to her. He had been instrumental in saving face for Cassandra on that disastrous night of her ball. He was always ready with a joke. He had become rather a comrade-in-arms.

  As they waited for their turn at the steps, she scolded herself for her discontent. Of course, it would have been more thrilling to dance with Lord Lockwood and put off his apologies. But that had all come to an end.

  “I understand the new Lady Hampton is quite reconciled with the gentlemen of the pact,” Lord Burke said. “As well she might, I suppose, as she married one of them.”

  “Cassandra has forgiven them all,” Sybil said.

  Lord Burke smiled. “You say that as if she is alone in the endeavor.”

  “Oh, I suppose there is no end of people who have forgiven them,” Sybil said. “The ton always does forgive those with bright prospects.”

  “But you have not?” Lord Burke asked.

  “I certainly have not. You see, Lord Burke, the Hayworths do not fold like sheep. Once an enemy has proved oneself, they must remain an enemy forevermore.”

  Lord Burke laughed heartily. “I see, Lady Warrior. For myself, I prefer peace to war and so will forgive wherever I can. It makes the world far more pleasant, I find.”

  Sybil did not answer. Here was another person who thought forgiveness an admirable quality. But what of standing by your own convictions? Were those to be just cast aside in the name of peace?

  “Ah, I see you are in earnest,” Lord Burke said. “P
oor Lord Lockwood.”

  Sybil felt her face flame. “Why should you pity Lord Lockwood, in particular?”

  “Never mind, Lady Sybil,” Lord Burke said, “it is our turn.”

  And so they moved through the steps, Lord Burke looking as jolly as ever and Sybil feeling a discomfort she could not name.

  If there was one aspect of her uneasiness that she could put her finger on, it was that coming to London had exposed her to so many varying opinions, so many different ways of going on. In their lonely corner of Cornwall, there was not such a diverse number of views. Her neighbors were all fiercely independent and distrustful of outsiders. The miners who descended into the earth each morning and rose out of it again in the late afternoon would no sooner be told what to do than the king—if they mined, it was because they chose to feed their families and nobody was to say anything about it. The farmers, both tenant and otherwise, met at the Stalwart Bull each Sunday after church to discuss what was growing or not growing or should be growing, as serious as if they attended Parliament. Should a stranger stop and ask direction, they would be directed to the fastest route out of the county—those farmers had no faith in the character of foreigners. Honor was the calling card of Cornwall. Everybody knew how one should proceed and everybody proceeded accordingly.

  The Hayworths’ particular brand of honor was respected, and even admired. If that family was to carry on an argument over a fence for three generations, then so be it. Nobody would raise an eyebrow if they were to carry on with it forever. Her father and Mr. Hurst regularly cut each other in the most spectacular fashion when they passed one another in the village. It had become rather a tradition, and Sybil knew there were various bets laid in taverns over which of the gentlemen might display the fiercest expression of disdain.

  Yet here in London, so many things seemed to be about expediency. The gentlemen of the pact were to be forgiven because, after all, they were to be dukes someday.

  Where was the honor in that?

  And yet, she had encouraged Cassandra Knightsbridge to consider Lord Hampton. She’d seen that the lord was in love with her friend and suspected Cassandra to feel the same. In that moment, forgiveness had seemed right for Cassandra.

  But it could not be right for Lady Sybil Hayworth.

  It was out of the question.

  *

  Sybil sat in the drawing room of Hayworth House, pretending at her sewing. Anybody who had really paid attention might have noticed that she pulled out more stitches than she put in.

  Lady Hathaway’s ball should have been exceedingly pleasant. She had danced every dance, even the marvelous Polonaise. Lady Hathaway, having some pity on her guests and their ignorance of the steps, had staged an instruction session for all who wished to learn it before the actual dance was begun. It was an elegant dance and reminded Sybil of kings and queens promenading, particularly since not everybody had been bold enough to try it. Sybil had the great good luck to dance with Mr. Hasforth, a gentleman who had traveled widely on the continent and was already familiar with the steps.

  The supper had been a true adventure, much to her father’s dismay and Sybil’s delight. No white soup had made an appearance, as it was so likely to do at a ball. Rather, a rich red soup called borscht was served. Next was Malossal caviar in small dishes that sat atop shaved ice and were to be spread with an oyster shell spoon onto buttered crepes, and then a separate dish of salted herring with chopped hardboiled eggs, along with icy champagne. The salad was of potatoes and mayonnaise with pickled cucumbers and carrots. The meat dishes had been extraordinary—a finely shaved beef atop noodles in a rich cream sauce, lamb-filled dumplings, and small pies filled with salty pork and a sweet red jam. Even her father had seemed to approve of the beef. For dessert, dozens of marvelous honey cakes filled with custard and sugared walnuts had been rolled out on silver carts.

  Upon departing the house, she had been presented with a lovely wool shawl with embroidered red roses and red silk fringe. According to the note pinned to it, it was a Pavlovsky shawl, named for the region in Russia from where it emanated. She had since folded it carefully in paper to be a wonderful Christmas present for her aunt. All in all, the Hathaways’ ball should have been one of the most diverting of the season. Yet, Sybil had felt decidedly at odds with herself.

  Lord Lockwood would make a show of escorting every beautiful lady to the floor. He would dance the Polonaise as if he’d known it all his life. He would entertain Miss Daisy Danworth at supper until Sybil could no longer bear to see the lady’s blond curls bouncing along with her laughter.

  Most confounding of all, he would entirely ignore Lady Sybil Hayworth.

  It was just as it should be, and it was also exceedingly unsatisfactory. She had no wish or intent of ever forgiving Lord Lockwood, but she found herself put out that he did not still try. Was she not worth an ongoing campaign? It seemed not so bold of the reputedly bold Lord Lockwood to give up so easily. Perhaps he was never as bold as she had thought. Or worse, perhaps she was never as interesting as she had thought.

  Her father interrupted her very bad sewing and irritable thoughts. He said to Lady Blanding, “Here’s come our invitation to Dartsfell Hall—the house party is to be held in the last two weeks of June, my dear. I am certain you will want to accept.”

  “Indeed, I do,” Lady Blanding said, appearing pleased. “I do not suppose we have ever missed it these past eight years and do not see why we should begin now.”

  Sybil was not surprised by it. Dartsfell Hall was located in her mother’s old neighborhood in Yorkshire and the Hughs were dear friends. That same invitation was delivered every year, though this was the first time Sybil had been on the scene when it arrived.

  Before this year, she had remained behind in Cornwall and only ever received her mother’s letter from London saying they would go, and then letters from Yorkshire describing all that went on. It was never the right season for shooting, but the Hugh family were amply prepared to entertain with other diversions. Aside from lawn tennis and bowling and cards and billiards, there was even a lake where one might try their hand at sailing. Should a gentleman have a knack for it, he might dare to enter Lord Hugh’s annual regatta and win the coveted Yorkshire cup.

  Sybil had looked forward to the idea of traveling north to this genial party. Now, she was positively going and she would enjoy it. She must enjoy it. It would do her a world of good to leave London for a time. The country air would clear her head of any warring ideas. This town was too mixed up, it was too contrary. There was no clear idea of anything. She would benefit to find herself among close friends of the family.

  “I will admit,” Lord Blanding said, “I will be glad to be clear of this town for a time. The Hughs understand us and are not likely to foist fish eggs upon me at supper.”

  “And you may sharpen your sailing skills even further,” Lady Blanding said.

  “I certainly will,” Lord Blanding said. “I am most determined to take the cup this year. I did not read a tome on the science of harnessing the wind this winter for my own amusement.”

  Sybil could not say whether her father had any real chance of winning the coveted cup. She could, however, reflect on the idea that every year a letter had eventually arrived to Cornwall, expressing her father’s utter disappointment over losing and generally blaming the now much-studied wind for his ill-luck.

  “You, Sybil, will be cheered to be once again in the country and away from the foul air of town?” her father asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Sybil said. “It has sometimes seemed foul, indeed.”

  *

  The Lords Lockwood and Ashworth sat in a small parlor at Destin’s. It was an obscure little club but had the alluring attribute of not being patronized by their fathers. One might come and play cards or read the newspaper or simply watch the world go by out the windows without hearing of the Dukes’ Pact. The owner of the club, Marty Destin, had the good sense to provide comfortable chairs, brandy that had not been watered down,
a strictly maintained bet book, and a blind eye to whatever else might go on in his club.

  Richard had briefly thought of taking a room there when he was eventually thrown out of his house in Mayfair for lack of funds. He’d decided against it as one never really knew what might go on at Destin’s, particularly late at night. He’d had enough notoriety recently; he did not wish to embroil himself in some new scandal. Scandals led to staring and he did not like it. While it was one thing to punch a reprobate in a tavern for staring too hard, he could not very well do so at a ball.

  “Cressden has a horse for sale,” Lord Ashworth said. “One of his fancy greys. I might go have a look at him, though I have no idea how I’d pay for it now that our funds are about to dry up. Maybe I can wager for him.”

  Richard did not the least attend what his friend went on about. He said, “Her father, that Lord Blanding, whoever he thinks he is, has forbidden her to dance with me.”

  Lord Ashworth stretched his lanky frame out on his chair. “Lord Blanding thinks he is an earl and is correct in thinking it, as you well know. The old fellow does you a favor, you have become a little too fixed on Lady Sybil for it to do you any good.”

  “I am not fixed on her,” Richard said. “I am not fixed on anybody. I simply do not like being told what I cannot do.”

  Lord Ashworth folded his arms. “First you follow her round the town because she must accept your apology, though why she warrants an apology, nobody knows. Now she must dance with you,” he said. “I tell you, Lockwood, you are becoming too fixed. You have that habit, you know. We all remember how fixed you became on Lieutenant Mattalan, it almost cost you your life to defeat that scoundrel because you would not wait for reinforcements.”