Double Deception (17 page)

But he had not done so ... at least not yet. And she was not married, nor—if her premonitions could be trusted—was she in any danger of becoming a wife in the near future. Instead of the thought depressing her, Athena found comfort in it. Her aunt's small house in London suddenly offered a haven from the turmoil of emotions this dark, harsh-faced man had stirred within her heart. Now if only she might find the right words to console Penelope for the loss of that fanciful dream Peregrine had promised them both.

The earl raised his head at that moment and stared up into her eyes. Athena felt her breath catch in her throat.

"What has Perry done to make your daughter cry, madam?"

"I told you, sir," Penelope sobbed convulsively. "Perry lied to us. I
hate
him!"

"Hush, dear," Athena murmured, blushing at her daughter's straight talking. "It is not right to hate anybody."

"Well, I do hate him, Mama." Penelope gave a gasping sob, and the earl applied his handkerchief once more to her streaming cheeks.

"Come, darling," Athena pleaded. "Let us go upstairs and ask Jackson to send up a tea-tray with some of Mrs. Morton's lemon curd tarts, shall we? The ones you like so much, Penny."

"I do not
want
any tarts," her daughter wailed, clasping her arm more tightly round the earl's neck and hiding her damp face in his cravat.

"What do you want then, love?"

Athena had never heard the earl use that tone before, and it quite touched her heart. She had never imagined him as a patient man, and certainly not one to put himself out for a distraught child.

"I want Buttercup," Penny sobbed.

"Up in the nursery?" the earl asked in mock surprise. "Are you telling me that you want to invite Buttercup to take tea with you and your mother, brat?" The mocking amusement in his voice caused Penny to give a watery chuckle.

"Of course not, silly," she gurgled. "I want to have Buttercup for my very own. As Perry promised I might."

Athena watched in fascination as the earl pushed one of her daughter's wayward ringlets out of her eyes and smiled tenderly at her. "I thought she was your very own already, love."

"Mama says we have no room for Buttercup in London."

The earl looked up at her again, and Athena could see no sign of the triumph she had expected in his eyes.

"Then you will just have to stay here, my dear," he said softly, and Athena had the strangest sensation that the earl was talking to her, not to Penelope.

The effect of this suggestion was instantaneous. "Oh, may we, Mama?" Penny said, her tear forgotten.
"Please
say we may."

The sight of her daughter's sudden joy kindled her anger, and Athena turned on the earl, who had risen from his kneeling position to look down at her with an amused gleam in his eyes.

"That was quite unforgivable, my lord," she said, her voice low and husky with fury and unshed tears. "How
dare
you make such promises to a child when you must know they cannot be kept? Come, Penny," she said brusquely, fearing her emotions would betray her if she stayed in the earl's presence a moment longer. "Come, dear," she repeated, pushing Penelope towards the stairs. "Run up to the nursery this instant. And no argument," she added, noting the mulish look on her daughter's face.

"And you, my lord," she paused, one foot on the stair to look back at the earl, "let me warn you that we have endured quite enough deception in this house to last a lifetime."

Feeling the tears welling in her eyes, Athena turned and ran up the stairs after her daughter.

Two mornings after this outburst, Athena sat at her dressing table staring at her reflection in the mirror and wondering how she could possibly bear to remain in this house until after Lady Sarah's ball. She had promised herself that she would not do anything impulsive. Much as she would have liked to pack her trunks and run away from the heartache of Peregrine's betrayal, the seductive intimacy of his father's gaze held her mesmerized, robbing her of the will to break away.

Besides, she told herself for the umpteenth time in the past week, Lady Sarah had come to depend upon her, consulting her on every detail of the approaching festivities in honor of her great-nephew's birthday. Almost as though her hostess had sanctioned the presence of Peregrine's betrothed at the Castle. Sanctioned their marriage. Although her ladyship's approval— if indeed her growing amiability denoted approval—had come too late, Athena mused, rising reluctantly from her silent contemplation. Since there would be no marriage—Athena had finally faced this unpleasant truth—it made no difference whether Lady Sarah approved of her or not.

Neither did it matter whether Lord St. Aubyn approved of her or not.

This conclusion should have cheered her, released her from the anxiety that had plagued her since her arrival in Cornwall. But all Athena felt was a great sadness. She had relinquished her dream. She should have realized back in London that her darling Perry, for all his generosity, attentiveness, and protests of undying adoration, had been in the throes of a boyish infatuation. Nothing more.

She should have recognized the signs and guided him, gently but firmly, through the troubled waters of puppy love. She had been so much older and wiser; she should have known better. But she had allowed herself to dream, and allowed Perry to take on responsibilities for which he was singularly unprepared.

She had accepted his offer of marriage.

She should have known that infatuations do not last. She
had
known it. Perry had imagined himself in love with her, and Athena had allowed him to believe it. Was she not therefore partially responsible for his subsequent disenchantment, his newly formed attachment to the ravishing Miss Rathbone? Much as she hated to admit it, Athena recognized every one of the signs of Perry's new infatuation with the Beauty. Had she not experienced each one herself in London? Every adoring glance, every touch of the hand, every tender smile and eager attention to her comfort? All those signs of infatuation now directed at Miss Rathbone?

Athena brushed the unpleasant thought aside and reviewed the tasks that still remained to be done before the formal dinner tomorrow. Cook had expressed some alarm that the lobsters might not arrive in time to make up the patties, and she must visit the estate hot-houses to confer with Turner, the head gardener, on which flowers should be brought up to the house in the morning.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Mrs. Easton, who came bustling into the room after a brief knock.

"What is all this nonsense I hear from Penny about returning to London, my dear?" Clearly agitated, her diminutive aunt advanced into the room, her blue eyes troubled.

Athena sighed. She had intended to inform her aunt of her decision to leave Cornwall once Perry's birthday celebration was over, but it appeared that the unpleasant task must be faced now.

"It must be clear to you by now, Aunt, that there will be no wedding between me and Perry," she said, opting for the direct approach. "So it behooves us to—"

"Has the rascal j-jilted you, dear?" Aunt Mary stammered, her eyes wide with shock.

"No, of course not," Athena responded quickly. "At least not in so many words. But since I have clearly been replaced in his regard by another, I intend to release him from his promise."

Her aunt opened her mouth as if to protest, but all she said was, "Oh, Athena! How dreadful for you, dear."

"Not at all, Aunt," Athena said, painfully aware that she spoke nothing but the truth. "I should have seen that Perry was too young for the role he wished to play. I should never have accepted his offer. His infatuation with Miss Rathbone is ample proof that he is not yet ready to settle down with a wife, much less one ten years his senior."

"That conniving hussy!" Aunt Mary hissed. "How very convenient for his lordship that she should appear just in time to distract Perry from his obligation to you, dear. And you are only eight years older than he is, not ten," she added inconsequentially.

"I might as well be a hundred," Athena murmured. "It was foolish beyond reason to imagine Perry had the maturity to give us the protection and security we need, Aunt. I have decided to return to London as soon as Lady Sarah can spare us. No doubt she may be persuaded to provide us with a carriage."

"Oh, dear."

Athena glanced at her aunt. "You think she may not?"

"Oh, no," Aunt Mary murmured, her brow furrowed. "I am sure her ladyship will be most glad ..." Her voice trailed off. "The thing is, Athena... well, to tell the truth..." She paused, and Athena read indecision on her plump feature.

"I realize that it is not what we had planned, Aunt," she began.

"Lady Sarah has invited me to stay on indefinitely," Aunt Mary blurted out abruptly.

Athena stared at her aunt in utter amazement. Never in a hundred years had she imagined the possibility of Lady Sarah taking a liking to her mousy, unsophisticated aunt. A Cit's daughter, no less.

"As a paid companion?"

"Very handsomely paid, too," Aunt Mary confided with a grin. "You could have knocked me over with a feather, of course, but she insisted she was lonely here in this barn of a place."

"She called this beautiful place a barn?"

"Her very words, dear."

"And you accepted?" An uneasy sensation invaded Athena's stomach. This was a complication she had not counted upon.

Aunt Mary nodded and her frown reappeared. "Had I known how things stood between you and Perry, dear..."

"Nonsense!" Athena exclaimed with more assurance than she felt. "Of course, you must stay, Aunt. Penny and I will manage very well by ourselves—"

"I would not dream of such a thing," came the instant reply. "We will all stick together as we have always done since you returned from Spain, dear."

Athena put her arms about her aunt and gave her an impulsive hug. "No," she said decisively. "You will do no such thing, dear."

And indeed, how could she deprive her dearest friend of the chance to augment her meager income? Athena thought as she accompanied her aunt down to the morning room. And of the obvious enjoyment Aunt Mary derived from her association with Lady Sarah. That would be selfish indeed.

Much as her aunt had protested her suggestion, Athena knew that she would allow herself to be persuaded to accept Lady Sarah's generous invitation.

And Athena would be once more on her own, she thought, alone but for the comfort her daughter might give her.

***

That afternoon, while Athena was in the kitchen making a few last-minute changes to the dinner menu with a flustered Mrs. Crompton, the summer skies clouded over and a sharp wind blew in from the coast.

The first inkling she had that the weather had turned was when the back door flew open to admit a wind-blown Jenny, the cook's helper, clasping to her bosom a large bunch of parsley from the herb garden.

"Lor' luv us, Mrs. Crompton," Jenny exclaimed between laughter and breathlessness, "there's a nasty squall brewing out there or my name ain't—oh! forgive me, ma'am," she said hastily, catching sight of Athena and bobbing a curtsy.

Athena walked to the window and looked out, her expression grave. "I trust that none of your menfolk are out in this weather, Jenny," she remarked.

Along that part of the Cornish coast, she had discovered in the first weeks of her arrival at St. Aubyn Castle, almost every one of the earl's staff had an intimate alliance with the sea. Fishing was a local tradition, and had been for hundreds of years, passed down from father to son. Hardly a family employed at the Castle had not lost a relative to the sea. Even the Steeles had paid the price of this strange fascination Cornish-men seemed to have with that infinite expanse of water that Athena had viewed from the safety of the cliff tops. On one such expedition—before Miss Rathbone came upon the scene— Perry had told her the story of his great-uncle Gregory, whose yacht and all hands had been lost within sight of land during a summer storm.

Athena shivered. The sea scared her. One minute so calm and inviting, the next throwing up swells that rushed men to their deaths with frightening disregard for rank or fortune, for ambitions or dreams. There was a ruthlessness about the elements, storms in particular, that touched a core of primitive fear in her that Athena considered more appropriate to animals than to human beings. She repressed it vigorously, but whenever a storm threatened, she found entirely rational excuses to retire to her room and close the thick curtains to keep the elements at bay.

Gazing at the darkening sky and the branches of the elm trees responding erratically to the gusts of wind that blew in off the sea, Athena felt that familiar tremor of panic and gritted her teeth.

Abruptly another fear rose within her, and she forgot about her private dread of storms. Penny! She glanced at the kitchen clock and her heart sank. Her daughter was somewhere out there in the South Park, riding with Perry and Miss Rathbone.

She ran to the door and flung it open. A rush of damp air embraced her, pushing her backwards with its force. She grasped the doorframe to steady herself, then glanced back over her shoulder at the startled servants.

"My daughter is out there riding with the viscount," she cried, her voice rising against the noise of the wind. "I must go down to the stables to see if they have returned safely."

"Madam!" Mrs. Crompton exclaimed in shocked tones, moving to grasp Athena's arm. "Jenny here will run down there for you in a jiffy. There is no cause for alarm, I can assure you. His lordship will know what he is about."

The little maid stepped forward, tying a kerchief hastily over her cap and disordered curls. "Master Peregrine is a Cornish-man, ma'am. 'E will 'ave seen the signs and no doubt is safe back in the stables. I'll just run down to make sure."

Athena was not entirely convinced that Perry was to be trusted, and when Jenny returned, her skirts tangled about her legs by the wind and her kerchief askew, Athena read the alarm in her eyes before she spoke.

"Old Bates tells me 'is lordship rode over to the lake with the lady and Miss Penny," she gasped, breathless from her exertions. "Would ye be wishing 'im to send one of the grooms after 'em, ma'am?"