Amanda Scott (27 page)

He paused for a moment, still glaring, then rushed on defensively, “Don’t mistake, Miss Jensen-Graham, Bellingham got no more than he deserved. Fellow was a damned menace. Thought himself ill-used when the Russians gave him his just desserts for falling into debt, and he had the bad taste to go about trying to convince everyone that the British government ought to redress his grievances. Even had the cheek to come crying to me. Didn’t see him, of course. Teufel got rid of him. Well, that was his job, wasn’t it? Damme, the Bellingham fellow said he was going to kill Leveson-Gower, don’t you know. Teufel may have told him I’d be better pleased an he did away with Perceval instead. Reasons he might have thought that. Mind you,” he added, looking now from Sylvia to Greyfalcon and back again, “I don’t say he did, and I don’t think for a moment that Teufel actually believed the man would murder Perceval if he did suggest such a thing. Like Henry the Second telling those men he’d like to be, rid of Becket. No sooner said than done, and no one more surprised than Henry. This time, no one more surprised than Teufel.”

“I have met Major Teufel,” Sylvia said evenly and in a tone that left no doubt as to her disbelief of this version of the major’s behavior. “He attempted, sir, to persuade me to give him a book I had meant to give to Mr. Perceval. The very next day, Mr. Bellingham threatened to take that same book from me by force outside Greyfalcon House. He could not have known that I had the book unless Major Teufel told him, your highness, and Major Teufel could only have known of it if he intercepted a letter I wrote to Mr. Perceval.”

To her surprise the Prince seemed to regain his balance with these words. “I’ve no doubt that that is all quite correct,” he said with a dismissive gesture. “It was Teufel’s business to keep an eye on Perceval for me. The man’s been a thorn in my side for years, and that damned book no less so, if it is indeed Perceval’s book we’re discussing. Teufel might well have promised my favor to Bellingham in return for delivery of that book. Perceval said he’d destroyed all the copies years ago, but they keep popping up.”

He sighed. “’Tis no more than a prejudicial account of a trying time, and one, moreover that would prove embarrassing to the Tories, just as it would to me. Perceval decided long since that to publish the book would only remind people what sort of woman the Princess of Wales is, make them wonder why the Tories supported her even if the Whigs did make a mess of their investigation.

“I’ll not deny that with Perceval alive I’d rather have had the book in my possession than see it in his. Now, without his glib tongue to make black look white, no one will be much interested in it. A good deal of time has passed since the incidents referred to, so that book is no real danger to me now, Miss Jensen-Graham. Indeed, if you still have it in your possession, I should be happy to sign it for you. Someday, after we are all dead and gone, it may be worth a great deal of money again, but for now—” He turned up his hands in a dismissive gesture,

Sylvia opened her mouth to return to the subject of Teufel’s dealings with Bellingham, but Greyfalcon’s large hand on her shoulder stifled the words in her throat. “Miss Jensen-Graham no longer has an interest in selling the book, highness. Her father is an eminent scholar, as you no doubt know, and the book a part of his collection. There it will remain. Since the matter is not worthy of further discussion, we will not keep you from your guests. I daresay her majesty has begun to wonder what’s become of you.”

“Lord, she retired an hour ago,” the Regent said with a brief shrug. He turned to Sylvia. “I do hope you understand the situation, Miss Jensen-Graham.”

She nodded.

His highness’s mood changed again swiftly, and he clapped Greyfalcon on the back. “Since you accept responsibility for her behavior, my lord, I shall expect you to see that she keeps a still tongue in her head. Indeed, I suggest you marry her at once in order to keep her in line. Damme, it’s not at all good form for a young woman to go about flinging unjustified accusations at her sovereign.”

Sylvia’s bosom swelled with indignation, but the firm hand on her shoulder kept her silent. She did not dare to look at either man, however, for fear that she would blurt out the words hovering upon her tongue. Simmering, she allowed Greyfalcon to return an enigmatic response, and a moment later they were alone.

“What the devil did you mean to accomplish by all this, you wretched girl?” he stormed the moment the Prince’s back had disappeared through the door. “You ought to be beaten for saying such things to him, and, by God, if I have anything to say about it—”

Having quite suddenly no desire to fight with him, Sylvia bowed her head before the storm. Indeed, she recognized in his first words a tone of unmistakable relief that she had emerged from the incident unscathed and knew that his display of temper stemmed more from that relief than from real anger. Nonetheless, when the words continued to flow from him as he vented his fury over not merely the incident of the evening but others from the past, she decided at last that if he were allowed to continue unchecked, he might say more than he wished to say, particularly in view of the fact that the Regent had failed to shut the door tightly behind himself. There was only one way she knew of to stop him.

She had turned a little away from Greyfalcon, and so wound up was he in his own diatribe that he failed to notice the tears as they began to course down her cheeks, but at the second sob, his words ceased as though someone had turned a tap.

“Sylvia, my God, Sylvia, don’t cry!” Both hands clamped down upon her shoulders and he turned her to face him. “What have I said? Oh, Lord, Sylvia, you mustn’t—I’m sorry. I’ve never seen you cry. I never meant for you to cry. Here, take this.”

He tried to extract his handkerchief from his coat pocket, but she flung herself into his arms the moment his hand left her shoulder and sobbed against his chest. Greyfalcon, at a loss, first patted her back gently and then put his arms around her and murmured into her curls, “My dearest love, please don’t. Every sob is cutting me to the bone. I had no right, no reason. ’Twas fear speaking, or, or … Oh, I make no sense. Darling Sylvia, I was so frightened when I heard your words to the Prince. No one has ever accused him of beating a servant to death as they have his brother Cumberland, but the whole family is unpredictable, and he is as good as king. At the very least he could effect your social ruin if he took it into his head to do so. Oh, dearest, do not cry.”

“I have stopped, sir.” Indeed, he was holding her so tightly she was finding it difficult to breathe, but she had found, too, that she didn’t much care about breathing so long as he continued to hold her and to mutter such delightful things to her. But the moment she spoke, he held her away and looked anxiously down into her face.

“You know I didn’t mean a word of what I said.”

“On the contrary, sir, I am quite certain you meant every word, and that you will continue in future to be as abusive to me as you have been in the past.” Her eyes were twinkling now, and although he regarded her searchingly for a long moment, he relaxed at last.

“You deserve to be beaten.”

“See, it is just as I said,” she told him. “You threaten me, you scold me, and I’ve not the least doubt you mean every word you say to me. I go in fear of your wicked temper, sir, truly I do.”

He shook his head. “There have been times when I could wish that that were true, but you are a sad case, my dear. You pay no heed to me when all I desire is to protect you from your own impulsiveness. I warned you to say nothing to anyone about our suspicions, and what do you do but blurt them out to the Regent himself.”

“Are you going to begin again, Greyfalcon? Because if you are, I must tell you that I shan’t listen. You haven’t the right to take me to task this way, sir.”

“Oh, yes I do. You heard the man, I’m going to marry you in order to keep you out of trouble. Unless I much mistake the matter, that was a royal command, and while you may choose to play at ducks and drakes with the royal temper, I can assure you that I do not.”

“Marry you? Surely not, sir. Such a notion has never crossed my mind.” She looked demurely at her toes and waited to hear what he would say to that.

He shook her. “Never? We’ll just see about that, my girl. I’ve known my own feelings for days.” She continued to regard her toes, and a moment later he awarded her another little shake. “Sylvia, please, I know I ought to have waited before declaring myself. I have watched you these past days, and I believe you are beginning to recover at last from Christopher’s loss—”

“Christopher?” She looked up at him then, for Christopher’s name acted upon her like a splash of cold water. “Why do you speak of Christopher, sir?”

He smiled down at her, his hands caressing her shoulders now. “You loved my brother, sweetheart. I know that. I know, too, that his death was a terrible tragedy to you as it was to his own family, that you have avoided looking about you all these years for a husband because of that love.”

Sylvia nibbled at her lower lip, uncertain what to say to him. Then, at last, she looked up, looked directly into his eyes, searchingly, hopefully.

“What is it, love?”

“Please, sir, I don’t wish to hurt you or to make you unhappy, but that simply isn’t true. Oh, not that I didn’t love Christopher,” she added hastily when she saw disbelief in his expression, “for I did. He was the center of my life for so long that I was utterly lost without him when he died. But he was my friend, never my lover. The love I felt for him was a child’s love, not—”

“Not what, Sylvia?” He seemed to hold his breath.

“Not what I feel for you, my lord.”

He let his breath out in a long sigh. “Are you perfectly certain about that?”

“Yes, sir.” She searched again and saw need for more than that by way of reassurance. “We were very close, practically as one when we were small and up to mischief together. But we saw less of each other as we grew older. Not that it seemed to make much difference, you know, once we were together again. We began talking then, each time, as though a conversation, rather than our lives, had been interrupted. But after he went into the army, I never had so much as a letter from him. It wasn’t his way to write, and since we were not officially betrothed, he wouldn’t have done so anyway because of the impropriety. He knew I should still be here when he came home, so it didn’t seem necessary to write.”

“That sounds like love,” Greyfalcon said gently.

“Yes, surely, but when he died—and a part of me died with him—I didn’t feel the loss like I expected to. There was still that feeling that one day he would return as he always had and we would be together again. Not a longing, sir, not like that. Only a feeling, and the feeling passed. I long since ceased to look up expecting to see him when a caller would arrive midsummer.”

“But you stayed at the manor house. You never came to London again.”

She chuckled. “You know my father, sir. I felt needed, and I was content to let matters remain as they are. Papa needed me and was reluctant to frank me through another Season. I just assumed that I was meant to live my life a spinster lady. It didn’t seem so terrible a fate.”

He looked into her eyes, and she was able to meet his gaze without a blink. He was satisfied. “And now?”

“Now, I think I should prefer to be a married lady, sir, if anyone should ask me.”

“Anyone?” His look became fierce.

She grinned at him. “Well, perhaps not just anyone. Mr. Lacey is very nice.”

“Damn Lacey. With any luck your dear Miss Mayfield will capture him. Serve them both right. You’re going to marry me, my dear, and that’s the long and the short of it.”

“Am I, sir?” She blinked at him.

“Aren’t you, sweetheart?” His voice was gentle again, and the way he looked at her just then sent warmth rushing through her veins and a tingle to the center of her body.

“Oh, yes, I believe I am. Oh, Francis, I once told your mother that I should like to meet someone with whom I could be myself and say whatever I liked, instead of always talking drivel. And now, with you—” But she could say no more, for he had swept her into his arms again as his lips claimed hers.

At first the kiss was gentle, exploratory, but when she moved against him, his passions took over, and his arms tightened briefly before his hands moved over her body, touching, caressing, stirring her senses as they had never been stirred before. Sylvia responded enthusiastically. It seemed as though she had been waiting a lifetime for this moment. This man was not Christopher. Christopher had been a boy, a gentle laughing boy, a mischievous boy. He had been her best friend. But Greyfalcon was a man. He would be her husband, her lover, her life. When she was with him, he made her feel as though she might do anything, as though she could be more than she had ever been before. He made her like herself better, for he brought out the best in her.

“Well, this is a fine thing, I must say!”

They broke apart, whirling as one to face the doorway. The door stood wide now, and an interested page could be seen peeping over Lord Arthur Jensen-Graham’s shoulder.

“Papa!”

“Aye, Papa, and what are you doing, miss? And you, sir? A fine example.” Lord Arthur swung the door shut behind him, nearly catching the page’s nose in it.

Greyfalcon grinned at him. “You may demand to know my intentions anytime you like, sir. I assure you they are quite honorable.”

“Eh? What’s that you say?” He peered at them both through his silver-rimmed spectacles. “You mean to marry the chit, do you? Well, by all that’s holy, that’s a fine thing. We must discuss settlements.”

“Papa, what on earth are you doing here?” Sylvia demanded.

“Doing here?” He blinked at them, thrown off his stride by what he had just discovered. “Well, I’m here to fetch Greyfalcon, of course.”

“Fetch him. Good gracious, is something wrong? The countess, is she ill?”

“No, no, nothing of the sort,” he retorted testily. “You women are all alike, always thinking the worst. Men are more sanguine, always. I must write a treatise on that fact. We don’t go imagining foolish things—”