Torn between amusement and indignation at Robby’s escapade, Deanna sank to her knees beside the now silent boy. “Little wretch!” she told him while removing some long silk strands of the tassel from his tiny, clutching fist. “You couldn’t have done better had you tried.”
Out of the corner of her eye she saw a pair of gleaming Hessians approaching. She looked up and, under cover of Lady Saltash’s continuing harangue and George’s soothing tones, interspersed by the giggles Sybil was vainly trying to stifle, Deanna spoke quickly.
“Now the fat’s in the fire, Felix. We’ll never talk Lady Saltash into keeping Robby. What shall I do?”
“Let me handle it.” He squatted beside her and deftly set Robby on his feet. Just as smoothly he unwound the tangle of child’s arms and bellpull, but before he could explain to Deanna how he meant to convince Lady Saltash, the drawing room door was flung open, and Billings entered hurriedly.
“You rang, my lady?”
“Rang?” Lady Saltash’s voice was shrill. “I wouldn’t have been able to ring had I wanted to.”
The butler glanced at the torn-off bellcord and the broken chair beside Deanna and Felix. Not a muscle twitched in his well-trained countenance. “I’ll have everything set to rights in a trice, my lady,” Billings said soothingly.
“And please send for Katie, Billings,” Deanna requested, gathering her skirts. “I believe the boy is in need of a nap.”
Felix rose and extended his hand to Deanna, helping her up from her kneeling position. She shook out the folds of her gown, then took Robby’s hand and led him toward Lady Saltash.
The baroness’s scowl was awful. She looked so intimidating that the intrepid Robby hung back uncertainly. Pushing out his lower lip, he scowled back at Lady Saltash, then veered toward George.
“There’s a good chap.” George grinned broadly and, giving Deanna a wink, held out his hand to the boy. “Come to George. I can tell you a neat little trick or two you might want to tuck away in your brainbox for an auspicious occasion.”
“Lord Stratten! How dare you give him fresh ideas—we’re in the basket already.” But, try as she would, Deanna could not hide the betraying quiver of her lips.
Sybil chortled. “Oh, don’t act starchy, Deanna. Admit! You think it funny. I can tell from the way your eyes are dancing.”
“I’ll admit no such thing, Sybil. I was hoping to show your aunt what a good little soul Robby is. And see where it got me! She’s more incensed than ever.”
Meanwhile, Felix was taking advantage of Lady Saltash’s disapproving silence. “Come, dear ma’am,” he coaxed, extending his arm gallantly to the baroness. “Let me help you to your chair.”
Taking care to avoid the foot-long spray of plume on her black velvet turban, Felix bent his head confidingly close to her. “I admire your generosity and forbearance, ma’am. It cannot be easy on you to have this young rapscallion in your home.”
Lady Saltash shot a sharp look at him from under her bushy brows. What on earth was Fenchmore implying—or was she reading too much into his words? She allowed him to seat her in her favorite chair before replying. “Not for long, Fenchmore,” she said, placing the cane by her elbow and adjusting the folds of her silk gown, striped in lavender and black.
“No, indeed,” Felix exclaimed warmly. “That’s why George and I are here, ma’am. We’ve uncovered one or two facts which should help us find Robby’s kin with all due speed.”
Her piercing, dark eyes narrowed. “You and Lord Stratten are planning to help Deanna find the boy’s family? Why? Why do you involve yourself in this, Fenchmore?”
He bowed. “I deem it an honor, and so does George, to be able to render assistance to you and the child—and to two such lovely young ladies.”
The baroness lowered her heavy lids. What the deuce was Fenchmore driving at? Had he noticed the child’s—no! She must not think about the child. Probably the earl and Lord Stratten had an interest in the girls. Quite a feather in Sybil’s cap that would be. But careful now, she told herself. More than one matchmaking dame had burned her fingers in that pie; she had no wish to repeat their mistakes and cause the gentlemen to shy off. Time enough to ask their intentions later on—when they were established as regular callers on the girls. And obviously Felix was planning to use the dratted child as an excuse to call. Perhaps, if she didn’t look at the blue-eyed, raven-haired boy, the memories he had dredged up would fade again….
When Katie entered shyly and bore Robby off to the nursery, Lady Saltash called impatiently, “Sybil! Deanna! Come and sit here by me. You too, Lord Stratten.
“Now then,” she said when the young people were gathered around her, “I understand you are all planning to look for the child’s family together.”
Sybil’s mouth opened in astonishment, but George beamed at the baroness. “Best diversion I’ve had in a month of Sundays, ma’am,” he said. “Besides, it makes me feel I’m doing something worthwhile, helping the poor little mite. Being a bachelor, I can’t offer him a home as you did, but one likes to contribute, of course. Daresay you know what I’m talking about, ma’am.”
Deanna glanced quickly from George and Felix to Lady Saltash. It didn’t matter the slightest bit to her how many persons would be involved in the search for Robby’s family; she was interested only in learning if the baroness had relented and had agreed to let Robby remain at Saltash House, but decided not to press for a definitive reply until the gentlemen had left.
“Oh!” Sybil pouted prettily and batted her long, silken lashes. “But will that leave us time for some fun?” she cried. “I’ve been in town for almost a week, and I haven’t seen anything at all.”
“I shall be happy to take you and Miss St. Cloud for a drive tomorrow afternoon,” offered Felix. “Lady Saltash, would you care to accompany us?”
“Good heavens, no!” The baroness looked disgusted. “I’ve had my fill of London sights, but by all means, do take the girls.”
“Shall you come, Lord Stratten?” Sybil asked anxiously.
George hesitated imperceptibly. The little minx was rather blatant, but if he refused, she’d only leech on to Felix, and Felix would need his time to investigate the boy’s background. Besides, it might be a good thing if Felix were concentrating his attention on Miss St. Cloud; he might learn that not all redheads were bad. George nodded, his blue eyes twinkling at Sybil. “Nothing short of an earthquake could keep me away tomorrow, Miss Walton.”
Flashing him a bright smile, Sybil made her preferences known. “I should like to see Carlton House and the Tower, but mainly, I wish to drive along the Thames to see if this latest thaw melted the ice on the river. I haven’t given up hopes of an ice fair yet.”
“Neither have I, Miss Walton.” George grinned sheepishly and admitted, “In fact, I pray every night for freezing temperatures and more ice.”
Lady Saltash snorted. “What nonsense!”
“Not at all, ma’am. I bet Alvanleigh ten to one that we’d have a frost fair on the Thames before February fifteenth.”
Sybil clapped her hands. “And it will be just like the one in the winter of 1739–40. I read all about it in The Times this morning. How delightful! I shall add my prayers to yours, Lord Stratten.”
It was then agreed that the gentlemen would call for Sybil and Deanna shortly after noon on the following day to take them on a sightseeing tour and afterward to tea at Gunter’s in Berkeley Square.
No sooner had the door closed behind Felix and George than Deanna fastened her eyes upon her hostess and asked anxiously, “And Robby may remain here, ma’am?”
Lady Saltash searched for her cane. Gripping the silver-capped knob tightly, she rose from her chair and looked down her nose at Deanna. It wouldn’t do to let the girls guess her reason for keeping the boy. Sybil, in her exuberance, might get too familiar with Felix, and he would draw back as if someone had waved a cup of poison under his nose.
“Of course the child will remain here,” she said to Deanna. “I’ve had time to consider the situation, and if we cannot contrive to catch a husband for you among the eligible bachelors, we shall have to consider a widower. If he happens to have a brood of little ones at home, it will not come amiss to have it known that you have a soft spot for children.”
The baroness turned to go, but after only a few steps she halted again. “Keep the boy away from me and see to it that he doesn’t wreak any more havoc on my furnishings, Deanna,” she barked over her shoulder, then continued on her way to her own apartments.
“Well—” Sybil said with a sigh when the tap-tapping of her great-aunt’s cane could be heard no longer. “What a turnabout! I’m glad Robby need not go to an orphanage; it would have put such a damper on our fun. Only I do not understand about the widower—why should you not find an eligible bachelor, pray tell?”
Deanna was folding Lady Saltash’s neglected shawl, but at Sybil’s question she stopped, allowing the soft material to slip from her fingers. “I believe your aunt was warning me not to set my expectations too high.”
And to banish the image of a tall, broad-shouldered bachelor with unruly, dark hair and compelling gray-green eyes, Deanna picked up the half-knotted shawl again, and stuffed it, fringe and all, into Lady Saltash’s workbasket. She closed the lid with a decisive snap. “You had best put up your needlepoint now, Sybil. It is almost time to get ready for Mrs. Merriott’s dinner. Remember, we must make a good impression on this, our first appearance at one of the select ton gatherings.”
But Sybil’s mind was still on eligible bachelors. “Is my aunt saying you should not set your cap at the Earl of Fenchmore or Lord Stratten?”
“I believe that is what your aunt implied,” Deanna said, trying to sound casual. “They are considered great matrimonial catches and may look as high as they choose for a bride. They would not consider an elderly, dowerless female like me.”
“What about me?”
Despite a feeling of heaviness in the region in her heart, caused by her analysis of Lady Saltash’s words, Deanna could not help but laugh. “You need not worry about a widower, you goose.”
She left her chair and went to sit beside Sybil on the brocaded sofa. Giving a gentle tug to a soft brown curl hanging over Sybil’s ear, she said lovingly, “You are young, very pretty, and well connected, and on top of it all, your marriage portion will be substantial. You could hold out for a duke were you so inclined.”
“Well, I’m not! But I’m afraid no young man will wish to wed a girl whose papa is … well, batty.”
“Sybil! Your father may be an eccentric, but he is as rational as anyone. He is a scholar and a renowned authority on ancient Greek philosophy, and that, you know, excuses a great deal.”
Sybil wrinkled her pert little nose. “But no one even knows Papa exists. He’s forever shut up in his study. I wouldn’t wonder if Mama has quite forgotten that she is a married lady and not a widow like your mama.”
A lively vision of Mrs. Walton’s eleven children from Sybil, the oldest, down to eighteen-month-old Jeremy danced through Deanna’s mind. She choked, trying to suppress a gurgle of laughter, but refrained from making a comment.
In any event, she was not called upon to explain her sudden burst of hilarity, for Sybil, with the single-mindedness that was so much a part of her, wished only to pursue her own thoughts. Sighing wistfully, she said, “I don’t think an invisible scholar will impress Lord Stratten.”
“What are you saying, my dear?” Deanna’s eyes danced with amusement. “Have you lost your heart yet again? First it was to the curate, then to Humphrey Goodwyn, and now to Lord Stratten—three times within two short months! Not to mention the trail of broken hearts you left behind during the summer—”
“Oh, Deanna! How can you speak of those … those green boys in the same breath as Lord Stratten. He is an experienced man of the world!”
“I should think so. He must be thirty if he’s a day.”
“And he has such address! It makes me feel tingly inside when he smiles at me. Don’t you think he is paying me the most marked attention?”
A tiny frown appeared on Deanna’s smooth brow. This sounded rather more serious than any of Sybil’s prior attachments. “Lord Stratten is very obliging, and one would have to look far indeed to find a gentleman kinder than he,” she said carefully.
A scornful blaze from Sybil’s hazel eyes told Deanna clearly what her friend thought of her choice of adjectives, but a second reminder that they must change for the dinner party at Mrs. Merriott’s house finally succeeded in turning Sybil’s thoughts toward more mundane matters than the attentions of Lord Stratten.
The dinner was an unqualified success from Lady Saltash’s point of view, for Deanna and Sybil were well received and regarded with approval even by such a high stickler as Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, one of Almack’s patronesses.
Deanna and Sybil, however, considered the evening a great bore—for the most part. They found themselves the only members of the younger generation among a bevy of Lady Saltash’s friends. No one could have been more genial than their hostess, the heavyset, wheezing Mrs. Merriott, whose tightly curled hair was even redder than Deanna’s and undoubtedly owed its flaming luster to the lavish use of henna. Her spouse, a cadaverous-looking gentleman in his eighties, pronounced the girls vastly pretty indeed and promptly returned to his port, several bottles of which were placed on a small table near his wing chair; and Lord Blakeley, Lady Saltash’s favorite opponent at piquet, did his utmost to discover their life stories while patting their hands and other parts of their anatomy within his reach—thereby earning himself several baleful looks from the baroness.
Thoughts of the silver-haired, roguish Lord Blakeley could still send Deanna and Sybil into whoops of laughter whenever their eyes met across the breakfast table on the following morning, and they both agreed to avoid a dinner party of that kind henceforth—if they had to spot their faces with dabs of rouge and pretend to have succumbed to a case of the measles.
“I don’t know what Aunt Meredith could have been thinking about to drag us to that dreadful affair,” Sybil exclaimed. “I swear I might have gone into a decline right there and then had I not had the drive with Lord Stratten to look forward to today, but I wish I had slept until eleven. Now we must wait two hours before we can expect to see them.”
Deanna was quite as eager to see the gentlemen again, if for a different reason than Sybil, she told herself. Lord Fenchmore—Felix—had neglected to return the locket to her, and without the miniatures she could not ask the Bow Street magistrate to send out a runner.
The writing of a letter to her mama and an hour spent in the nursery whiled away the time quite pleasantly for Deanna. When Katie came with Robby’s dinner and put a stop to the building and wrecking of wooden towers, she also brought the news that my lords Fenchmore and Stratten were waiting in the drawing room. With dismay Deanna realized that she was still wearing her morning gown and left the nursery in a rush to change into a long-sleeved merino walking dress in the same hue of jade as her cloak.
When she finally entered the drawing room, Sybil, in a sapphire cloak of softest, sable-lined wool, was tapping a booted foot impatiently. “There you are, Deanna!” She pulled on her gloves and rose hastily. “What took you so long?”
“I had a bit of trouble pinning my fur cap, dear. Good afternoon, Lord Fenchmore, Lord Stratten. I see you ordered sunshine for our drive. How very thoughtful.”
“Oh!” Sybil cried. “How can you be so insensitive to Lord Stratten’s predicament, Deanna? Don’t you realize that the sun is his worst enemy at the moment? Let’s go before all the ice on the Thames has melted.” She whirled and rushed out of the room ahead of them all.
Chuckling, George followed the tall young girl while Felix bowed and extended his arm politely to Deanna.
“Thank you, Lord Fenchmore.”
“So formal?” he murmured close to her ear as they went downstairs. “What have I done to incur your displeasure, Deanna?”
“Absconded with the locket, my lord,” she replied promptly.
Momentarily disconcerted by her reply, he found nothing to say. But when they reached the entrance hall, the light seeping through the oriel window above the door revealed Deanna’s gray eyes, brimful of mischief and twinkling up at him.
“Shall I hand it over now to set your mind at ease?” he asked, accepting his greatcoat and hat from Billings.
“When we return will be soon enough, Felix.”
Outside, Deanna turned up the fur collar of her cloak, for the air was chill despite the bright sunshine. They were just in time to see Sybil and George tool off in a brown and yellow phaeton and hastened their steps to reach Felix’s curricle drawn by a pair of midnight-black thoroughbreds.
Deanna gasped. “Oh! How beautiful!” She went to the horses’ heads, rubbing their velvety noses with delight.
The groom looked horrified, and Felix, who had hurried after her, took a deep, steadying breath when he saw that his spirited Welsh-bred horses showed no sign of wanting to bite or kick. Deanna had the magic touch.
Finally she tore herself away. “We’d best not keep them standing any longer,” she said reproachfully as though it had been Felix who had delayed their departure.
“Yes, ma’am.” He grinned and handed her into the black curricle with its elegant upholstery and trim picked out in a soft oyster-tone. Taking the reins from his groom, Felix swung himself up beside her and gave his horses the office to start. The groom jumped up on the perch behind the seat, and off they went at a spanking pace.
In no time at all they had left South Audley Street behind and were traveling along busy Park Lane. Without checking his pace, Felix swept past a dowager’s lozenged coach lumbering along at a snail’s pace, then tipped his hat to a young blade in a high-perch phaeton.
“Are you warm enough, Deanna?”
“Oh yes. Thank you.” She craned her neck to study a particularly imposing building, but they went by in a flash. “Are we racing or are we sightseeing?” she asked indignantly.
He laughed but slowed the horses to a canter. “Merely trying to catch up with George. But if you don’t object to being left behind, I shan’t either.”
“No, indeed. When we were dashing along at such high speed, I dared not address you for fear of breaking your concentration, and I’m agog to learn if you have begun the inquiries of Lord Armagh’s friends.”
“No, I have not written yet. I did obtain the names of his most intimate friends yesterday—and a popular man he was. There must be at least thirty names on the list the officer at Whitehall gave me. I’m hoping you might wish to offer your help.”
“I’ll be glad to help. In fact, had you mentioned it at Saltash House, I could have stayed behind and started writing the letters.”
“That is exactly why I didn’t—”
“Oh, look at that poor boy!” she interrupted, pointing ahead to a pint-sized crossing sweep in a coat that was far too large, and with a scarlet muffler swathed around his head. “It is cruel to make him work in such cold weather. And look! That carriage splattered the slush right back where he had cleared a path.”
“Sisyphean labor indeed,” Felix agreed. “But that is how he earns a living of sorts. You wouldn’t want to deprive him of his livelihood just because there is snow on the ground, would you?”
Felix halted the curricle and looked at Deanna. “Would you rather I did not drive across his path?” he asked.
Her cheeks flamed. “I am sorry, Felix. Of course we must drive across. Only it seems so … so callous.”
Felix unbuttoned his greatcoat and extracted a silver coin from the pocket of his coat. With a flick of his wrist he sent it hurtling toward the avidly staring urchin, who caught it clumsily.
“His hands are near frozen. They’re blue!” Deanna exclaimed. She set aside her muff and struggled out of her leather gloves. “Here!” Leaning over the side of the curricle, she passed her gloves to the boy. “Wear these, child, before you lose your fingers.”
“Thank ’ee, milady. Thank ’ee, milord,” the boy mumbled. Donning the gloves, he flashed them a wide, gap-toothed grin, snatched up his broom, and ran off as fast as the heavy clogs on his feet allowed.
Felix stared after the disappearing urchin. Once again, as on the night in Lincolnshire when Deanna had blown into his life with an infant held protectively under her cloak, she had acted quite contrary to what he expected of a young lady. Ladies of the ton were generally too wrapped up in their own concerns—fashions, gossip, affairs of the heart—to pay attention to a crossing sweep, let alone notice the chilblains on his hands.
A vivid image of his mother as he had known her more than twenty years ago flashed through his mind. She had been petite and vivacious like Deanna. Defying the fashion of the day, his mother had piled her unpowdered hair atop her head in a profusion of flame-colored ringlets and had flitted from ball to ball with no serious thoughts to mar her pleasure.
It appeared Deanna was cut of a different cloth. Felix’s chest expanded with warmth—a feeling he had not experienced since his grandmother’s loving attention had been brought to an end with her sudden death eight years ago.
Before Deanna could slip her hands back into her muff, Felix lightly clasped them in his own and raised them to his lips. He kissed first their backs, then turned her hands over and touched his lips to her palms.
She caught her breath as his warm mouth came into contact with her skin. Deploring the conventions which demanded self-control of a lady at all times, Deanna reluctantly pulled her hands away, tucking them into the muff. His caress had startled her; pleasantly so. Had she hesitated too long before withdrawing her hands? Her face burning, she shrank away from him.
Felix flicked the reins, apostrophizing himself a fool for his impulsive act. “He’ll probably fence the gloves,” he said brusquely. “Or his mother or an older brother will take them from him.”
Deanna raised her eyes to his. “Possibly,” she said quietly, “but we cannot refuse to give simply because we fear our aid may not be utilized exactly as we intend.”
Deanna stared down at the white fur muff in her lap. Mama had warned her time and again not to let her feelings govern her actions, but that was apparently one lesson she’d never learn. Even to impress the Earl of Fenchmore, she could not show a detached, ladylike manner when that entailed closing her eyes to some wrong or suffering.
Bah! Deanna mentally tossed her head. She had no wish to impress the earl in any case.
But you were not thrown into such a state of confusion because of your action, her embarrassingly honest voice pointed out. You are disconcerted by Felix’s hand kiss and by your response to his touch.
Felix had noted the almost imperceptible toss of her head. He looked at her for a long time, trying to see into her mind, but she had lowered her lashes. All he could see was a beautiful young woman, her cheeks delicately tinted by the kiss of the frosty air, and brownish-red curls peeping saucily from beneath a fluffy, white fur cap.
“There be my lord Stratten,” said the groom behind them, and Felix tore his eyes away from the entrancing vision at his side.
Deanna raised her head, responding automatically to Sybil’s excited arm-waving and looked about her in surprise. She had been so abstracted that she had paid no attention to her surroundings. Instead of enjoying the drive through Green Park, she had missed it altogether. Felix was even now turning into the Mall, driving under the ice-laden branches of the majestic old chestnut trees, past the palace stable yards, past St. James’s palace, and past the Chapel Royal. When they had left the bright red brick façade of Marlborough House behind, Felix slowed his horses to a walk.
“There it is,” he said, “Carlton House.”
The Prince Regent’s elegant residence with its immense Corinthian portico was set amid vast pleasure gardens where all but the temple and the graceful elms were hidden under more than a foot of snow.
“It is rather more impressive when viewed in any season other than deepest winter,” Felix admitted. He pulled up behind George and Sybil, who had stopped for a better look at Carlton House. “What next, Miss Walton?” he called. “Shall it be the Tower?”
“May we not please drive to London Bridge first?” Sybil asked prettily.
Felix saluted with his whip. “London Bridge it is.”
It was a long drive, and the damp from the nearby river, mingling with the cold, soon penetrated Deanna’s cloak. When they reached St. Paul’s Cathedral, she was thoroughly chilled and had to bite her lip to keep her teeth from chattering, which did not exactly encourage the flow of conversation between her and Felix.
“Dash it, Deanna,” he said. “What ails you? I’ve heard naught but yes and no from you these past ten or fifteen minutes.”
“I’m c-cold.”
His dark brows met across the bridge of his nose in a deep frown. “Why didn’t you say so? If you reach beneath the seat, you’ll find a carriage robe. Do you think you can manage?”
“Of course I c-can. Thank you.” Reluctantly she removed her hands from her muff, then hastened to drag out the rug. Pulling it up to her chin, she tucked it around her shoulders and huddled gratefully beneath the thick fur. After a while she asked shyly, “Would you care to share the rug, Felix?”
He laughed to cover the sudden desire to sit close to her beneath the rug. “There wouldn’t be much left for you, and after all, I have a half-dozen capes to my cloak. They keep me warm enough.”
Finally they were on Fish Street Hill, approaching London Bridge. Even before the narrow stone structure came into full view, a deafening roar and a noise like the report of a small piece of artillery assaulted their ears. And then Deanna saw the huge pieces of ice being hurtled downstream with the ebbing of the tide, cannoning into each other and against the stone piers supporting the bridge.
“Where does all the ice come from?” she asked in an awed voice.
“During the recent thaw large chunks separated from the frozen banks all along the river, and they have been slowly drifting downstream. The drop of the water at ebbing forces the blocks of ice through the narrow channels between the piers, and later, with the return tide, they will be pushed back again. That is why vast quantities of ice have been trapped between here and Blackfriar Bridge.”
“There’s so much ice here that another day or two of frost will forge it together,” said George, who had maneuvered his phaeton alongside. “And there’s more cold weather on the way. I feel it in my bones.”
“And then we’ll have a frost fair!” Sybil shouted triumphantly. She directed a sparkling glance at Deanna. “Aren’t you pleased now that we came to London? You wouldn’t have wanted to miss this, I’m sure.”
Deanna laughed. “Let’s say that now I’m here I’m prepared to enjoy whatever London has to offer.”
“You did not wish to come to town, Miss St. Cloud?” George asked.
“Do you truly wonder, my lord? I must admit I thought it quite foolish to set out from Yorkshire in the dead of winter.”
“Chicken-hearted, Deanna?” Felix teased.
She nodded. “Extremely so. But, Felix, I daresay we should be moving on. It is entirely too cold to keep the horses standing for long.”
Sybil, whose eyes had darted curiously from Felix to Deanna, cried, “You are calling each other by your first names! How fast, Deanna!”
To her mortification, Deanna felt a guilty blush mount in her cheeks.
Felix sternly suppressed a smile. Fast! Thank goodness, Sybil did not see the extremely forward hand kiss Deanna received! “What do you say, George,” he called out. “To make Deanna’s lapse less conspicuous, shall we all make use of our given names?”
“Splendid notion,” George boomed. “Do you have any objections, Miss Walton, or may we call you Sybil?”
Deanna spoke to Felix in a low voice. “Craven! You remember very well ’twas your idea to use first names!”
“Let’s go, Felix!” Sybil called. “Can we drive straight to Gunter’s? I don’t wish to see the Tower today—it’s so cold—but I should like to sample shaved ham and Arrack punch.”
“By all means, let’s go to Gunter’s,” George agreed. “But I fear you’ll be disappointed in the fare. Felix and I planned to treat you and Deanna to tea and cakes. Arrack punch and ham is the specialty at Vauxhall, and even there most ladies bypass the punch for a glass of hock or champagne.”
George swung his phaeton around and whipped up his horses to follow Felix up Fish Street Hill. Sybil scooted closer to him, whispering against his shoulder, “I’m glad I may call you George. It’s ever so much more comfortable, isn’t it?”
“Indeed, it is. For now I can tell you without fear of offending that you are a minx.”
Sybil’s long lashes fluttered. “You are an excellent whip, George. Are you a member of the Four-Horse Club?”
“I am, and so is Felix.”
“Will you teach me to drive a four-in-hand?”
“Certainly not.”
“Oh.”
George looked at her downcast face, noticing her trembling lips and the stricken look in her eyes after his stark refusal and relented a bit. “But if you show an aptitude for it, I might, when the streets are free of ice, teach you how to handle a pair.”
A wide smile dimpled her cheeks. If this didn’t prove George’s interest in her, she’d eat her muff. “Thank you, George,” she said demurely, casting about for some other topic to captivate his attention. Unfortunately, none occurred to her.
“Do you have any family besides Lady Olmsley?” she asked finally when the silence between them grew too long for her comfort. After all, Mama had always maintained that gentlemen liked it best if they could talk of themselves.
“Thank goodness, no! One sister, the obligatory brother-in-law, and nephews and nieces are as much family as I ever wish to see. What about your family, Sybil?”
“I have ten brothers and sisters,” she replied, crestfallen.
“My condolences.” George’s lips twitched, but he made no effort to lighten Sybil’s obvious chagrin. He had the uncomfortable feeling the minx was determined to believe herself in love with him, and if, inadvertently, he had given the impression that a large family was repugnant to him, so much the better. Until the “Corsican monster” had been captured, he could not get embroiled in a complicated affair of the heart—even had he wanted to; which he did not. Not with a young schoolroom miss like Sybil.
When he and Felix had returned the young ladies to Saltash House just before dusk, George voiced some of his concerns to Felix while they sat in the comfortable study of Fenchmore House in Berkeley Square.
“I can’t feel easy calling on the girls,” he said worriedly. “Sybil already fancies herself more than half in love with me.”
“Don’t get into a taking, old fellow!” Felix propped his feet comfortably on the edge of the massive mahogany desk. “It’s nothing but calf love; she’ll snap out of it before you know it.”
A frown marred George’s boyish features. Not for the first time did he wish that he could talk to Felix about his involvement with the Secretary for War. But Lord Bathurst had been adamant; no one must know. It made matters deucedly awkward. He rose and poured himself another glass of claret from the decanter on the sideboard. “Easy for you to say, Felix. You have a legitimate excuse for calling in your search for Robby’s kin. But perhaps I should stay away for a while.” He drank slowly, his clear blue eyes on Felix.
“No, don’t do that!” Felix dropped his feet to the floor. Leaning forward in his chair, he looked at George earnestly. “That would leave me quite dreadfully in the lurch. You weren’t close when I spoke with Lady Saltash yesterday, but I fear that she’s made up her mind I have an interest in one of the girls—Sybil most likely, since she’s her niece. If you don’t come, I’ll be a prime target for Lady Saltash’s matchmaking. Besides, what would Sybil do without you to show her around?”
“By Jupiter!” said George, much struck by Felix’s words. “If she had to wait for Lady Saltash—or Lord Blakeley, God forbid!—to take her places and show her a good time, she might as well return to Yorkshire.” George downed his wine. One more complication in his life would make not a jot of difference. “That settles it,” he said. “I’ll squire the girl about until you have proof of Robby’s paternity, but mind you, I’ll make dashed certain Sybil thinks of me as no more than her friend!”
Felix raised his glass in salute. “We’ll be the girls’ friends—just what I told Deanna at Thistledown Cottage!”