Double Deception (6 page)

With a small sigh, Athena rose to her feet and made her way through the mass of blooming flowerbeds, down the long trel-lised pathway, awash with climbing roses in yellows and whites and palest pinks, until she came out into the sunshine again. The sight that met her gaze made her pause and brought a lump to her throat. Penelope tugged wildly at one end of the mallet, while Perry, in shirtsleeves and hair falling about his face, seemed determined to wrest it from her. Two excited spaniels rushed around in all directions, adding to the general commotion with their frenzied barks.

"
My
turn, Perry," her daughter yelled boisterously. "You
know
it is."

"No such thing, you saucy minx," Perry cried laughingly. "Fair is fair, Penny. It is my turn. Ask Mrs. Easton, if you do not believe me."

"Penelope!" Athena called out, advancing across the lawn towards the battling pair. "This is no way for a lady to conduct herself, dear. Whatever would Lady Sarah think if she could see you now?"

At the sound of her voice, Peregrine released his hold on the mallet, sending Penny sprawling on the grass amidst a gale of giggles. He turned and grinned at her.

"You are missing all the fun, Athena," he said, his blue eyes dancing with amusement. He reached down and pulled Penny to her feet. "This daughter of yours is a tip-top player, or would be if she could bring herself not to hog the mallet."

"It was
my
turn," Penelope insisted stubbornly. "That is enough, Penny," Athena admonished. "Perry will not wish to play with you if you do not give him a turn now and then." 

"But—"

"Enough, I said," Athena repeated sternly. "If you insist upon acting like a spoiled baby, I shall send you to take tea in the nursery." This awful threat silenced her daughter, who brushed ineffectually at the grass stains on her dress and handed the mallet to the grinning viscount.

"Race you to the table, Perry," she challenged, their squabble forgotten as the portly Jackson issued from the terrace doors, followed by three footmen carrying silver trays of tea things.

"I would offer you my arm, Athena," Perry said ruefully, "but I am lamentably damp from trying to keep up with your daughter. But I trust you intend to join us for tea." He waved negligently at the butler making his way sedately across the lawn towards the centenary oaks that spread their huge branches over the rustic tea-table and array of lawn chairs.

Before Athena could reply, the imposing figure of Lady Sarah appeared on the terrace, where she paused for a moment, as if debating whether or not to join the small group on the lawn.

"Aunt Sarah!" Peregrine called out eagerly. "How delightful! You are just in time for tea. Here, allow me to assist you." He strode across the grass towards the commanding figure of the dragon, but Athena was not surprised when Lady Sarah waved him aside imperiously with her cane.

"I am not an invalid, Perry," she snapped in her strident voice, which Athena was beginning to suspect was only adopted with her great-nephew and his guests. "I have no need of your assistance, thank you very much."

"But Aunt—"

"Stop coddling me, Peregrine," the old lady said sharply. "And what new fashion is this to appear at the tea-table in your shirtsleeves, boy?" She paused at the foot of the shallow stairs to regard the object of her censure through her lorgnette.

"I have been playing croquet with Penelope, Aunt," Perry replied, unabashed by her ladyship's stare. "An exhausting business, let me assure you. But naturally I shall replace my coat before I sit down to tea with you." He glanced at the terrace. "Is Father to join us?"

Athena caught a note of wistfulness in Peregrine's voice and a familiar stab of guilt shot through her. The earl had been conspicuous for his absence, both at the dinner table and in the drawing room since that dreadful encounter in the library two days ago. The memory of her reluctant host's grim countenance had troubled Athena's sleep ever since, and she had little doubt that Lord St. Aubyn would refuse to acknowledge her presence until she agreed to accept his outrageous suggestion that she betray his son for a paltry sum of money.

Paltry? Three thousand pounds was hardly a paltry sum, Athena reminded herself, disgusted that she had given the earl's offer more than a passing thought. For if truth be told, she had indeed considered it rather more carefully than she would like to admit. Three thousand pounds was a small fortune and, invested wisely, would provide the extra income she had needed to supplement John's meager pension. The earl's offer had tempted her—Athena was too honest not to admit it—but she knew herself to be equal to that challenge. She would never succumb to his nefarious scheme to be rid of her. His odious bribe had only strengthened her determination to wed Peregrine.

If only she could be sure that such a step would not alienate the earl from his son, she mused, watching Lady Sarah shake her head in response to Peregrine's question. Athena's worst fear was that she would be the cause of a second violent disagreement between a father and a son. It was far too late to remedy the damage she had innocently caused between John and his father, the late Earl of Wentworth, who had gone to his grave unrelenting in his anger towards his youngest son. Her darling John had joined his father two years ago now, and Athena firmly believed that they had made their peace beyond the grave.

But Peregrine was still such a boy, she thought. An adorable, innocent, and naive boy, so obviously devoted to his father. How could she bare to sunder that sweet bond of love that joined them? Too well she remembered the pain and shock of her own estrangement from her father following his unexpected marriage to his Brighton widow. The new Lady Rothingham had cut Athena off not only from her childhood home and her father's love, but from that sense of belonging to a place in time that contained all her most treasured memories.

She could not—
would
not, if it came to a choice—do that to Peregrine. He was so young, almost a child in many ways, Athena thought nostalgically, wishing—as she so often did— that the viscount were ten years older. But then he would not be the Peregrine she knew and loved, she reminded herself, and he would never have offered her the security of marriage.

A shadow seemed to touch her briefly, and Athena shuddered. She had always enjoyed being a wife, and had begun to despair of ever having a home and husband of her own again. And more children. She had grown alarmed and disillusioned at the number of offers she received from London gentlemen only concerned with their own pleasure.

And then she had met Peregrine by the river that sultry afternoon last spring.

His naive adulation had seemed amusing at first, she remembered, and infinitely touching. Until he had made his first offer of marriage.

She had laughed at the absurdity of such a notion. When he had persisted, Athena had felt the first tug of temptation. She thought of the many sleepless nights she had spent weighing the disadvantages of such an unequal union. And, of course, the benefits.

"Mama!" The shrill voice of her daughter jerked Athena back to the present. "Perry says I cannot have a currant tart until I have eaten my bread and jam."

"Young ladies do not shout, dear." She glanced around the group seated under the trees, pushing her doubts to the back of her mind. "And Peregrine is quite right. Bread and jam comes first, and if you behave, Lady Sarah may allow you to have one tart."

"Only
one?"
Penelope turned her wide blue gaze on their hostess and Athena distinctly saw a roguish smile tug at the corner of her daughter's mouth. "And if I am extra
extra
good?" she added tentatively, in a wheedling voice, "might I have two, my lady?"

Athena held her breath at the audacity of her child, but before she could censure her, Lady Sarah's caustic voice cut into her thoughts.

"Only if you promise never again to scream in my ear, child," her ladyship said sharply. "As I am always telling Peregrine, I am not yet at my last prayers." She cast a glowering look at the culprit, who seemed not the least cowed by this display of displeasure.

"Do you pray a lot, my lady?"

The awkward silence that followed this artless question was broken by a crack of laughter from Peregrine, who made no attempt to hide his amusement when his aunt threw him a blistering look.

"That will do, young man," she snapped, although Athena was convinced she caught a gleam of humor in the old dragon's eyes. "Come, Mrs. Standish," her ladyship continued briskly, "do not sit there gawking, girl. Make yourself useful and pour the tea for us."

Surprised and pleased at this flattering request to take charge of this duty, Athena hastened to settle herself behind the tea-tray. She smiled up at Peregrine, who had jumped forward to assist her, and his tender smile was balm to her troubled thoughts. If her Perry was happy with their betrothal, as he showed every sign of being, then they would have to find a way to win the earl over to the notion of their marriage.

"Perry, look!" Once again her daughter's voice broke into Athena's comfortable thoughts. "Your papa is coming to join us."

And indeed he was, Athena saw with a tremor of apprehension, as her eyes followed the lithe figure striding across the lawn towards them.

Suddenly the summer afternoon seemed less hospitable than it had a moment ago.

***

The sight of the ladies gathered under the oak trees on the lawn had drawn the earl out of the library into the sunshine. There had been something nostalgic in the cozy intimacy of the scene that awakened memories of happier times. Lazy summer afternoons spent in that very spot with his beloved Adrienne and young Peregrine. Happy memories that had caused him—on the spur of the moment—to abandon the lengthy treatise on Chinese porcelain of the Ming Dynasty he had been writing, in the middle of a sentence, and throw his quill down on the cluttered desk.

He would not wait until dinner to put his aunt's suggestion into practice, Sylvester thought, striding across the grass towards Lady Sarah and her guests. He would begin his campaign to distract the lovely widow's attention from his son this very afternoon.

Peregrine's two spaniels, Pip and Squeak, were the first to notice his approach, which they announced with excited yaps and frantic leaping around his knees, their plump bodies squirming with ecstasy.

"Father!" Peregrine exclaimed, quickly drawing up a chair for the earl. "I am so glad you could join us. You missed a splendid game of croquet with Penelope. The minx played so well she almost beat me. Can you imagine that?"

The obvious note of pleasure in his son's voice gave the earl pause for thought. Two days ago he had been so sure of the widow's reaction to his offer of a monetary settlement in exchange for her immediate departure from St. Aubyn's Castle. When Athena Standish had turned up her elegant nose at the not inconsiderable sum he had proposed, the earl realized that the widow must be holding out for more. Either that or she actually intended to lure Perry into her net. Little did the witch know the disappointment that awaited her, he mused with no little complaisance, watching from beneath hooded lids the tender glances his son cast upon the lady.

"My lord?"

Sylvester pulled his thoughts back from savoring the outcome of the plan he had so recently set in motion with the collaboration of his aunt, and found the widow's amber eyes looking directly into his. A most extraordinary color, he thought, startled at the warmth lurking in their tawny depths. Two days ago he had seen them flash with anger, but his own fury had prevented him from appreciating their undeniable beauty. Today he looked his fill and was amused when they fell beneath his gaze, a tell-tale shadow of pink staining the lady's cheeks.

"Father takes both milk and plenty of sugar in his tea, Athena," Perry answered for him. "You will learn the terrible truth soon enough," the viscount continued with a wide grin, "so I might as well tell you that Father has a worse sweet tooth than I do myself."

"What is a sweet tooth?" Penelope asked.

Sylvester turned to find the young girl's candid gaze fixed upon him curiously. She was a beautiful child, he had to admit, her pale golden curls and blue eyes oddly reminiscent of Peregrine's. They might well have been brother and sister, he realized, remembering with a jolt how much Adrienne had wished for a daughter. He wondered if the audacious widow had remarked on this curious likeness.

He smiled wryly at the thought, and the child, imagining the gesture was for her, returned a dazzling smile that lit her small face and caused her eyes to dance like two wild cornflowers in the meadow.

Quite of its own accord, the earl's heart constricted, and he had to look away, the memory of his wife and the daughter they had not had together vivid in his mind.

"A sweet tooth is something to be wary of, child," Lady Sarah answered unexpectedly. "Unless, of course, you wish your teeth to rot away and fall out before you are twenty."

Penelope's eyes opened wide. "Oh, Perry!" she exclaimed, turning to the viscount, "never say that your teeth—"

"That is quite enough, Penny," her mother cut in, rather prudently the earl thought, since the child was undoubtedly poised to utter something quite outrageous. He was surprised at the sense of disappointment he felt at being deprived of this childish chatter. It had been far too long since he had been around children, and this young girl reminded him vividly of dreams that had passed him by.

Shaking these maudlin thoughts from his mind, Sylvester smiled at the child. "I daresay Perry has a few years to go before his teeth turn black," he murmured, enjoying the way her eyes grew round with wonder. "But I hear that if little girls eat too many tarts at tea-time, they will be fat and ugly for their come-out."

"And no gentleman will wish to dance with them," Perry put in with a laugh.

"I shall
never
be fat and ugly," Penelope protested with conviction. "I shall look just like Mama when I grow up. And Perry will dance with me, will you not, Perry?"

"Of course, sweetheart," the viscount responded promptly, passing the plate of tarts. "Here, love. Have one."