Sybille's Lord (2 page)

“I
do want to be one of their husbands.”

Arthur
dropped his glass—luckily empty—onto the floor as he gaped at Thom.

“You…are,
er, what? Oh lord, I need more brandy.” Arthur looked around for another glass,
filled it and drained it in one long swallow. “Do you have any idea what that
would entail?” He ran his hand through his hair and mussed up the Brutus style
Thom guessed would have taken many minutes to perfect.

“Of
course.” Thom grinned. “Sort your hair, you look like a heathen.”

“Eh?”
Arthur stared and then must have caught sight of himself in a mirror. “Oh Lud, McKenna
will have a fit if anyone sees me like this.” McKenna was his valet. “He’ll say
it reflects badly on him.” He patted his head. “That will have to do.”

“Vanity,
thy name is Mitcham. Yes it will do. Come on, I’ll invite you to lunch.”

Arthur
snorted. “Thank you for that, I think. It will do indeed. You are supposed to
tell me I worry for nothing.”

“Why?
You have good reason to worry. To upset your valet is a dangerous business.
Good day Caterham.” He nodded to the older man as they passed him.

“Wha…?”
Caterham sat up and looked at them myopically. “Oh it’s you two. What do you
think of the Apothecaries Bill eh? Eh?”

“Too
much to discuss it without further thought,” Thom said emphatically.

Caterham
nodded. “Too true, ah well.” He turned back to his notes.

“Continue,”
Arthur said as the exited the room and made their way back into St. James. “Go
back to your earlier statement. You intend? Elucidate.”

“To
be one of their husbands.”

“I
thought that was what you said.” Arthur shook his head. “I thought you liked
the single life? What about Lady Wood?”

“I
did and I do. Lady Wood and I have parted ways.”

“I’ll
wager she wasn’t happy. I’ve heard you fed her well in every manner possible.”

 
Thom shrugged. “She began to demand too much.
Why is it that certain women think they can change the parameters? She knew the
limits and agreed to them. I had no intention of marrying her, and she knew it.
Now this other lady? I’ve been waiting for long enough for her to notice me in
the right way.”

“Has
she?” Arthur asked, his eyes alight with interest.

“I’m
not sure, but circumstances dictate I make a move.” Thom grimaced. “Oh don’t
worry, Arthur, I only have one of them in mind. And I don’t believe in droit du
seigneur either. Or mistresses tucked away in a side street. I will be a loyal
and faithful husband. Once she learns to trust me.”

“Who?”
Arthur stood up. “If I have to accompany you to Almack’s…”

“And
Madame Grey’s,” Thom said with a smile. He ignored the repeated query,
‘who
?
’

Arthur
rocked on his feet. “Now come on, Thom, that is asking too much. Not La Grey’s.
She reminds me of a spider ready to cast her web round any unsuspecting male who
stands still within her vicinity.”

“Don’t
stand still then,” Thom said implacably. “I’ll pick you up at four.” He smote
his friend on his back and set Arthur rocking again.

“I
wish you’d stop doing that without letting me know,” Arthur said plaintively as
he used his cane to steady himself. You don’t know your own strength.”

“I
do. Which is why you’re still standing. Until four.” Thom tipped his hat and
hailed a passing hackney.

“But
the bloody thing starts at two.” Arthur raised his voice as Thom hauled himself
into the hackney cab.

“And
ends at four. We’ll arrive just as the ladies depart. No need to set foot
indoors.”

“I
like your style,” Arthur said as Thom closed the door behind him, and stuck his
head out of the window.

“I
thought you would. ‘Tis a small thing but my own.” Thom rapped on the roof of
the carriage. “Grosvenor Square, cabbie.”

Chapter Two

“I
hate music, I hate Madame Grey and I really hate men,” Sybille Birch muttered
under her breath. Maybelle, her personal maid, twisted Sybille’s blonde hair
into a complicated knot, and let a few tendrils escape to frame her face. Sybille
twisted her head to look at Maybelle’s work and nodded in satisfaction.

“Lovely.
I just wish it was dressed for a different reason, not an awful musicale. If
Mary Tully is torturing the cat gut of her violin bow, I need cotton in my
ears,” Sybille said gloomily as she stood up and let Maybelle help her into her
dress and pull the laces tight. “And Almack’s tonight? It’s more than a woman
should need to bear.”

“Away
with you, Miss. You look a real treat. A sight for sore eyes indeed. And don’t
you go ragging me, you like Almack’s.” Maybelle handed Sybille her gossamer
thin shawl.

I do? Why has nobody told me?
“Hmm.”

“You’re
just tired. It gets you like that toward the end of the season I know. Why,
remember last year? Fair frazzled you were. I’ll get one of Doctor Potton’s
powders ready for when you get home, that’ll set you right as a trivet.”

“No
need,” Sybille said fervently. “I’ll buck up, I promise.”
I hope. And who wants to be like a trivet anyway? A ridiculous
expression.
Maybelle was fond of trotting out sayings she said her mother
used.

“See
you do.” Maybelle spoke with the familiarity only an old and trusted servant
could get away with. “Now then, off you go, your maman will be waiting.”

Sybille
had no doubt about that. Mijo might dislike Jacqueline Grey as much as Sybille,
but she knew what was best for her girls. Today it was Sybille’s turn to
suffer. Marielle, her twin, was in bed with a plaguey sore throat—or so she
said—although for one protesting so vehemently she was ill, she looked
remarkably chipper.

“Convenient,”
Sybille said as she stood next to her twin’s bed.

Marielle,
propped against the pillows, wearing a green silk wrapper, with her blonde hair
tumbling over her upper body, contrived to look injured. “Not at all. I fear it
puts a lot onto your shoulders.”

“So
do I. You owe me,” Sybille said, as she kissed her sister. “You’re not even
overwarm.”

“Sorry.”

“So
you should be. Gah, I wonder if I have a headache coming on?”

“You
will have after the musicale,” Marielle said. “I am sorry, Sybille, but I
cannot go.”

Sybille
nodded. After all there was nothing she could say, and with the rest of the
family busy with whatever Mijo had declared they must do, she had no option but
to put on a brave face.

Ten
minutes later she joined her maman in the carriage.

“Therefore
ma coeur, it is you who is the sacrificial calf,” Mijo said as they settled on
the comfortable squabs and the carriage moved away from the house.

“Lamb,”
Sybille said. She swore Mijo mangled the English language for amusement.

“Eh?
Ah bien, you mean the animal, not the woman.” Mijo nodded. “Although Lady Caroline
Lamb could easily be sacrificed I think.” She had no love for the overdramatic
lady. “Yes, today
you
sacrifice your
eardrums for the greater good of the family. If we did not show, gossip would
start. Why are there no Birches? Have they had to retire to the country? Have
they paid their servants?” Mijo sighed. “That is how little gossipy stories
turn into scandals.” She tucked a tendril of Sybille’s hair into her chignon. “That
is better.”

“And
have we paid the servants?” Sybille ignored Mijo’s attention. Her hair would
come lose soon enough, as the fine strands didn’t take well to being fastened
up. It was the bane of her life. “Is there any cause for concern?” She knew as
well as all her siblings how tight the family’s circumstances were. Each and every
child had vowed to marry well and do their bit to save the name of Birch from
being besmirched.

The
problem was, Sybille acknowledged, she might well be the one of her siblings
not to succeed. Oh she could, but would she? Sybille had long vowed that unless
she had a marriage like her parents, she’d rather be an old maid and retire to
the country—with cats. As she always sneezed if a cat came within three feet of
her, that might not be the best idea she’d ever thought of. Nevertheless the
other options, marriage—or worse, to someone she thought despicable—were not on
the cards and marriage to that certain someone she had a tendre for was equally
unlikely. She assumed he saw her as no different to all the other debs—lighthearted,
light-headed and lacking intelligence—and treated her with the same casual
indifference. That was also something she couldn’t accept. Indifference led to
infidelity, the other major stumbling block in Sybille’s mind. No mistress
would be part of her marriage.

“We
have, and come what may, we will continue to do so.” Mijo had a decidedly
militant gleam in her eyes. “Our servants are loyal and remain my first
priority. However, how much longer we can remain in the capital, I’m not sure.
I may need to invent an emergency in Devon to get us away for a few weeks. Just
to regroup, you understand.”

“Yes,
please,” Sybille said fervently.
Although
would it help?
She rather thought it would only postpone her problems.
Better to meet them head on. She thought briefly of the missive she had sent
off that morning. Could it aid her? Sadly, she had no way of finding out until
it was answered. Of course it might be ignored. She hoped not.

Mijo
laughed, although to Sybille’s ears it sounded hollow. “I worry about my girls.
Only Amalia wants to be here, and she is really too young to understand all the
petty idiosyncrasies of the ton. The rest of you?” Mijo sighed. “You would all
prefer Devon.” Her tone made it very clear she couldn’t understand their
preferences. Sybille knew her mother loved their country home, but as she had
grown up during the Terror in France she also enjoyed the excitements of the
season. Her older daughters did not.

“Sorry,
Maman. We are a trial, I know. I promise not to yawn or snore this afternoon.
Or at Almack’s. Now, how’s that?”

Mijo
made a very Gallic snort. “I trust none of my children would be so uncouth as
to snore. Yawning behind a fan I can understand, especially at Mrs. Grey’s.
But.” She held her hand up to forestall Sybille’s retort. “That is no reason not
to attend. We are going.”

 
Sybille mentally rolled her eyes. Truly her
maman knew her children well. At least, as Mijo was wont to say, she
distributed the unpleasant things equally between them. With a shrug and a
smile, Sybille decided she was very glad she carried a fan, gave in with good
grace, and resigned herself to two hours of torture.

She
got them. Why Mrs. Grey couldn’t open the purse strings and employ decent
musicians and singers, Sybille had no idea. Instead the woman coerced friends, and
family, and in truth anyone handy she could persuade—or blackmail—to take part
to provide the entertainment. She’d only approached Sybille once, with an
ingratiating smile and a demand she show her talents.

Sybille
had looked around, checked no one else was in earshot and leaned toward the
older woman. “You mean cheating at spillikins? Or my proficiency at Le Galop?”
She mentioned both a children’s game and a scandalous dance her maman had taught
her children one rainy day in Devon. It hadn’t crossed the channel, and as Mijo
told them it wasn’t overtly mentioned in fashionable circles in any European
country, not even in the East, where she thought it had begun, Sybille knew
Jacqueline Grey would be dumbfounded.

“My
maman would not permit it. She would never be so common.”

That
had sent a red and dumbstruck Mrs. Grey away. She’d never approached any of the
Birch children to perform again, but Sybille was often conscious of the woman’s
metaphorical desire to stick a dagger between Sybille’s shoulder blades…at
least she hoped it was metaphorical.

Nevertheless,
Sybille thought as she tried hard not to wriggle, yawn, or show her boredom in
any way, Le Galop would certainly enliven things.

By
the time Mijo rose to leave, Sybille had a numb bottom and pins and needles in
her toes. She wriggled them unobtrusively, and wished she could do the same
with her rear. The chair might have had its rattan seat covered, albeit with a
nasty shade of puce velvet, but it had no padding under the cloth.

Sybille
gave a long sigh of relief as they descended the shallow steps from the
entrance of the house to the street below. “That, Maman, must give me kudos and
save me from any more attendances for quite a while. I swear I still have no
feeling in my posterior. That chair was never meant to be sat upon for more
than five minutes.”

Mijo
patted her arm. “I’ll remember your sacrifice and absolve you from any such
activities for a while. However, before you ask.” Sybille shut her mouth with a
snap, and Mijo smiled. “You will go to Almack’s. How else can you be seen and noticed?”

Was
it impolite to tell your maman you neither wanted to be seen or noticed? That
in fact you wanted to hide until such times you felt you could breathe freely
once more?

“Ladies.”

No please no. Not now. I need more
time.

 
“My lord?” Mijo was at her most haughty.

Cornelius
Bankfoot, resplendent in a puce waistcoat, reminiscent of Sybille‘s recent
seat, scowled at her. “My dear ladies, you’re alone with no escort. Please
allow me.”

 
No please no.

“Lady
Birch, I’m so sorry we didn’t get here on time. Blame Arthur for our tardiness.”
The dark, smooth-as-her-morning-chocolate voice made Sybille’s heart speed up.
She spun around, and hoped her maman didn’t notice the heat she experienced as
it covered her cheeks.

Bankfoot’s
face darkened. “You think you can step in here, Jeavons?”

“Of
course I don’t think it.” Thomas, Lord Jeavons stared at the other man. Sybille
suddenly understood what people meant when they said someone exuded power. “I
know it.”

Bankfoot
turned the color of his waistcoat, and his cheeks puffed up as he tightened his
lips. “I was about to escort the ladies. Your presence is not required.”

“Oh,
you err, my dear Bankfoot. As I feel you often do.” Thom’s voice was full of
menace.

Bankfoot
took a step back, and Sybille smothered a grin at the first incredulous, but
then murderous look on the man’s face. It wasn’t funny per se, and could bode
ill for Thom, but it gave Sybille heart. Someone was able to play Bankfoot at
his own game, and best him.

“Excuse
us.” Thom turned his back on Bankfoot before the man could speak and put himself
between Bankfoot and Mijo. Arthur Mitcham, who had stayed silent and watchful at
Thom’s side moved to block Bankfoot from Sybille. Bankfoot hovered for a few seconds,
took a sharp indrawn breath, spun on his heel and walked away. His back was
ramrod straight, and he tapped his cane forcefully onto the pavement.

“Not
a happy chappy,” Arthur remarked. “You best hope you don’t meet him in a dark
alley, Thom. He’d have your guts for cat meat as soon as look at you.”

“He
can try.” Thom shrugged. “Forget him. In every life strife occurs. He’d like to
be mine.”

“Why?”
Sybille couldn’t help asking him. He raised one eyebrow.

“I
enjoyed the opera as a young man.”

“Ah.”
Sybille knew her face was red, but her lips twitched. “And, I assume, the
performers.”

“Only
the female ones.”

She
couldn’t help it. She giggled and covered her mouth with her hand. Only he
could be so outrageous and get away with it.

“Thomas.”
Mijo had obviously tried to speak in a censorious voice and not succeeded. “You
are incorrigible.”

“Madame.
Ravishing as ever. When are you going to leave Theo and run away with me?” He doffed
his hat, bowed over Mijo’s hand and kissed it. Sybille almost took a step
backward in astonishment at the sharp pang of envy that hit her.

It should be me.
The thought startled her. It was
her maman, for heaven’s sake. Who was devoted to her husband, Sybille’s papa.

Mijo
tapped Thom on his cheek, and laughed. “Thomas, promise me you will never
change. If I were to run with anyone, I vow it would be you.”

“Not
me? Now I am inconsolable.” Arthur smote his forehead in a very theatrical
fashion. “Sybille tell her, I’m so much better than this villain here.”

Sybille
shook her head. “My lord, you are as bad as each other.”

Thom
grinned and took hold of Sybille’s hand. “But I spread my favors around.” He
bowed and looked up at her from under raised eyebrows. The heat in his eyes
startled her. Startled, she noted, but it didn’t scare or make her skin crawl
as a certain other’s glances did.

Arthur
snorted. “That is perhaps not the thing to say to the ladies, Thom. You sound
like an old roué.”

“Thank
you,” Thom said dryly. “Luckily these ladies know what I mean.”