Sybille's Lord (13 page)

Chapter Twenty-One

“There,
that’s Geddling straight ahead.” Thom couldn’t keep the pride out of his voice
as he looked at his beloved godmother’s house. He accepted that one day it
would be his, and as much as he knew it was somewhere he’d enjoy looking after,
Thom hoped that day was a long way ahead. Apart from losing the one person who
supported him through thick and thin, he’d have a lot of decisions to make. One
of which was how to admit he would prefer to live here above all of his other
properties.

“Oh
how beautiful.”

He
nodded. “It is my perfect house,” he said simply. “Even more than The Grange.”

 
Sybille squeezed his arm. “I can understand
why. And your godmother will be waiting for us?”

He
shook his head and pointed. “She’s too impatient for that. That’s Esme.” A big
black stallion with a female rider, habit streaming out behind her, was rapidly
approaching. “Not a conventional godmother.” He thought for a moment. “Not a
conventional anything if the truth be known. I might have fudged her stickler
for convention genes. They are little to nonexistent. You remind me of her.”

“I
do?”

“Well.”
Thom moved the phaeton to the verge. Esme would have no compunction of riding
hell for leather right until the last second, and his beloved greys wouldn’t
appreciate Endeavor—Esme’s horse—quite so close. “You did, then recently you didn’t
and now you’re beginning to again.”

“Ah,
thank you, I think.”

He
laughed. “Hold onto your hat. Esme!” He raised his voice as Esme wheeled
Endeavor around in a circle and came to an abrupt halt. “You’ll break your neck
if you insist on riding like that.”

“Rubbish.”
Esme smiled as she patted her mount’s flanks. “Endeavor is a sweetie, and I,
young man, am forty-five not eighty five.” She looked at Sybille. “And this is
your betrothed.” It wasn’t a question.

“Lady
Sybille Birch, and as for betrothed?”

“We
are,” Sybille dipped her head. “As long as ...oh Thom will tell you.”

“Oh
believe me, he will. Now Thom, swap rides and let me drive Sybille—I may call
you by your given name?”

Sybille
nodded. “Of course you can.”

“Thank
the lord, I hate this standing on ceremony lark with friends.” Esme slid off
Endeavor and held the reins in Thom’s direction.

He
shook his head in amusement, and passed his own reins to Sybille. “She is an
unstoppable force.”

“And
don’t you forget it.” Esme, not one bit perturbed, waited until he climbed down
from the phaeton, and they effected the change in seats. “Don’t you go
upsetting Endeavor. We’ll see you back at the house.” Sybille grabbed hold of
the sides as Esme snapped the whip in the air and they moved away at a spanking
pace. Even Thom’s greys reacted positively to Esme’s enthusiasm.

Thom
sat on Endeavor and watched them for several seconds before he patted the horse
and teased his ears. Endeavor whinnied.

“Oh,
I agree, old chap. Lord, the two of them together. The whole county should
quake at that thought.”

Endeavor
snorted as they followed at a much more sedate pace than horse and rider had
approached.

Thom
caught up with the phaeton and its occupants as they entered the stable yard.
He jumped off the horse, and handed the reins to a groom, before going to help
his ladies—
my ladies
—he mused.
I like that.

“Did
she tell you why the horse is named Endeavor?” he asked.

Esme
chortled. “He named him, the fiend.”

“Fiend
who? The horse, decidedly. Me? Not at all.” Thom did his best to look a poor,
hard done to innocent. By Esme’s
‘pshaw,
fustian’
, he decided he hadn’t succeeded. “That horse was a hellion when
younger.”

Sybille
grinned. “I don’t know about the horse, but you? If the cap fits, my lord.”

Thom
shook his head. “Maligned. As for the horse, he was so wild, I said one day he’d
be the end of her, and she came back with his name was henceforth, end of her,
now Endeavor.”

Sybille
burst out laughing. “Oh I love it.”

Esme
harrumphed. “Ingrates. Come on then, let’s go inside and you can explain your
cryptic letter, Thom. As in why do I say you were here last night, when you
weren’t? And then you say nothing untoward would happen. She winked at Sybille
who went red. “That, my boy, is bad. You had the opportunity, and not the nous?”

Thom
spluttered. He knew his godmother. “Esme, you’re embarrassing Sybille.”

She
tuned to Sybille who, Thom could see, was shaking with silent laughter.

“Did
he not come up trumps?”

Sybille
evidently couldn’t hold in her giggles. “Something came up but not a trump. He
er…”

“Did
he play his cards right? Good, come on then, I’m famished.” She swung in her
heel, lifted the skirt of her riding habit up just enough to clear the dusty
stable yard and walked toward the house.

“She’s
incorrigible,” Thom said as they followed her indoors. “I love every
unconventional inch of her.”

“Just
as well,” Esme called over her shoulder. “There’s plenty of me to love.” She
patted her ample rear. “Come on. Bebb has laid a cold collation out for us on
the terrace.”

“I
hope you’re hungry,” Esme said as they sat on the terrace a few minutes later.
In her usual whirlwind way she ushered Sybille upstairs to wash, told Thom to
accompany Edgar, her major domo, to a spare bedchamber to freshen up, and
return downstairs as soon as possible. “Or I will have eaten all the clangers,”
she said.

“Clangers?”
Sybille asked as Esme took her arm and began to usher her up the stairs.

“A
pasty, m’dear, “Esme said. “Only longer and two courses in one. Savory at one
end, sweet at the other. Bebb is from Bedfordshire.”

That
explanation seemed to confuse Sybille more than ever, and the look she gave
Thom was pleading. He came to her aid.

“Bebb
is from Bedfordshire where the clanger originated. They’re taken to the fields
just like the Cornish tin miners take theirs down the mines. Mrs. Tate is a
close rival in the clanger stakes and her clangers are on a par. Bebb favors
plum jam and beef, Mrs. Tate lamb and gooseberry. Both delicious. I could eat
them all.”

As
Bebb’s pastry was renowned throughout the county and Thom accepted Esme’s
threat wasn’t an idle one, he hurried his ablutions and beat the ladies to the
terrace by a good thirty seconds.

“It’s
beef and ‘gage today. Tuck in.” Esme passed a dish across the table and Thom
needed no second bidding.

Conversation
was desultory and confined to such mundane but important comments such as, “Delicious”
and “Yes please I will have another one.”

Eventually
Thom leaned back and looked at the two women who for several minutes, had sat
and chatted while he finished eating. “Perfect. I am stuffed.”

“I
hope so, you’ve eaten enough for five.”

Thom
shrugged. “What can I say?”

Esme
guffawed. “Eyes bigger than your stomach?”

Thom
tried to look injured and was certain he didn’t succeed. Esme issued another of
her repertoire of snorts—she had several—and Sybille giggled.

“Not
at all, I finished everything on my plate.”

“True
enough.” Esme pushed the used crockery to one side. “So what’s all this about
old Cedric Bankfoot’s son? Odious creature. I thrashed him once for teasing his
twin. Cornelius I mean. Poor Alfie, he may not be all there up top, but nor is
he the imbecile Cornelius would like him to be.”

“I
didn’t know Bankfoot had a twin,” Thom remarked as Esme topped up their wine
glasses. “I imagine his father was relieved Cornelius, however repulsive, was
the elder.”

Esme
dropped the bottle onto the table. Luckily it was empty, and Thom caught it as
it toppled.

“The
elder?” She shook her head. “Is that their story? Alfie is the oldest. Hmm, I
can’t imagine Cedric being so deceitful. He’s not the smartest, but nor is he a
slow top. And I seem to recall he is a stickler for propriety.”

“He
never comes to town,” Thom said. “Plus, as far as I know Cornelius is deputed
to make all the decisions for the estate. Which is why, I and I suspect most of
the ton, think he is the eldest son. Does his twin ever go abroad? Visits and
such like to friends or London? To my knowledge I didn’t even know about him.”

“Evidently
it’s not talked about. Alfie is the elder by twenty minutes. I should know.
Their mother was my second cousin Georgiana. Poor thing died of milk fever five
days later. So, I think it’s time to tell me the all. What sort of trouble are
you in, Thom?”

“I…”

“He
isn’t,” Sybille said fiercely. “I am.”

“You?
With Bankfoot. Oh my dear, don’t tell me he’s forced you? I thought…” Esme
shook her head. “I don’t know what I thought, to be honest.”

“He’s
not forced me to… well you know,” Sybille said and looked at Thom.

He
took pity on her.

“He
knows a story about Sybille’s family that could ruin them. I know a way to
thwart him. I didn’t have a hope to catch him, even with it, if he proved to be
slippery, without involving the Birches and a lot of complications. Now thanks
to you I do. But I’d rather beat him without stooping to his level.”

“Then
tell me what he’s done, and what you’re going to do.” Esme leaned forward, put
her elbows on the table and cupped her chin in her hands. “And what I can do to
help.”

Thom
glanced at Sybille. Her face was white, but she seemed composed. He walked
around the table, knelt down in front of her and chafed her icy hands. In the
warm sunshine her pallor and chill worried him. “May I?”

Chapter Twenty-Two

The
fact he asked would have been enough to agree. The way he did it, with concern
in his eyes, firmed her resolve.

“Of
course.”

“A
quick précis, Esme. Sybille will correct me when I go wrong. A lot of the earlier
story is immaterial. You know, I assume, that Mijo escaped the Terror, arrived
via a fishing vessel with Theo Birch at the helm. They fell in love, married
and had six children.”

Esme
nodded. “Mijo and I are much of an age. They however live in the capital or
Devon. I prefer to stay here. However, even I heard all about Theo’s brother
dying at sea. There was a bit of gossip about how and why, and dirty dealings, but
it fizzled out. Thanks in the main to Theo’s attitude. Stoic, sad and with no
hint of scandal. Then he married Mijo. It was a great romance, I remember. Made
my life hell. I had no interest in marriage, and there they were happy as two
lovebirds in a cage. My mother was convinced I just didn’t try hard enough, and
kept telling me if a young French girl could do it, so could I. She forgot I
was a good six inches taller, three stone heavier, and had none of the niceties
needed to snare a man. My mouth was enough to put them off.” She shook her head
in a parody of despair. “I have always been somewhat outspoken. Luckily my
cousin Fenniston—Thom’s father—backed me, and I moved here. Twenty years ago
and never regretted it. But just because I’m out here doesn’t mean I don’t know
what’s going on. Or so I thought. Therefore, please continue.”

Thom
dipped his head and Esme gave a bark of laughter.

“Cheeky
whippersnapper. You’d better fill me in. Oh and before you wonder, I do know
that the Birches are not plump in the pocket, although I am not privy to what
extent. Many houses are short of the readies. You, dear Thom, are one of the
lucky ones.”

“True.
Well sufficient to say, a year or so ago, Mijo decided to have her pearls copied
for the girls to use as an aid to deportment.”

“Pawned
them, did she?” Esme asked, shrewdly. “Get them copied?”

“Copied
yes; pawned no. I came upon her as she was about to do so, and persuaded her I
had a better idea.”

“Bought
‘em off her?”

Thom
nodded. “We got them copied by Sandeman. All was well, or so I thought. However
it seems the string snapped and she took them back to be restrung. And was
seen. The bloody woman…sorry, Sybille.”

“Oh
don’t mind me, we’ve all had similar thoughts at various times,” Sybille said. “You
think I’m stubborn, you should try to persuade Maman to do something.”

“I
did,” Thom said ruefully, remembering it. “She insisted on doing it herself.
Now it transpires, something happened and one of the paste pearls needs
replacing. With hindsight, we now think Bankfoot must have seen her and
persuaded Sandeman to go into details. Now a lot of the ladies of the ton will
wear paste for non-important events, and swap to the real thing when they need
to make a shine or a statement. The fakes of course are often used by their
children, before their come out, to practice deportment and such. Am I right?”
he asked Sybille.

“Unfortunately,
yes. Grief, I hated it. I remember Tessa and a tiara, which she swore made her
three inches shorter due to the weight on her head. That sadly was never
copied.”

Thom
laughed. “Too easily spotted—or too complicated, who knows? But pearls and
necklaces are common, even if it’s never remarked on. Somehow Bankfoot realized
that Mijo only ever wore the fakes. The next bit I’m hazy over, but it
transpires he now has a hold over Sybille. And just asking Mijo to wear the
real pearls won’t be enough to negate it. Oh and before you ask—”

Esme
shut her mouth with a snap.

“Mijo
refused to wear them while, as she said, she didn’t have the funds to make them
hers.”

Sybille
wriggled on his lap.

Not the time to get aroused. Down,
boy.

“Now
it’s time for me to take up the sorry tale,” Sybille said. “Bankfoot played me
for an idiot.” She shrugged. “An innocent idiot, admitted, but oh how I was a
pheasant for the plucking. He seemed so nice, so friendly, and not at all a
threat. When I was introduced to him, I was flattered at his attention.”

“Who
introduced you?” Esme asked, before Thom had a chance to voice the same
question.

“Oh
someone perfectly eligible. Louis Ferrand. Not my taste, I must admit, but he
and Amalia seem to get on well.”

“Hmm,
go on.”

Thom
relaxed—if being as taut as a bowstring could be called that—back in the chair
and let Sybille remain slightly upright as she sat on his knees. Esme would
ferret out anything they needed to know. He did not, however, remove his clasped
hands from around Sybille’s waist. Sybille flashed him a grateful look and he
squeezed her slightly. “All right?” he asked softly.

She
nodded. “Well, we were at a soiree at Lady Grey’s. There were card and dice
tables set out, and when he asked me to play, I suppose I was flattered.”

“One
minute, who chaperoned you?” Esme interrupted. “Why weren’t you warned?”

“That’s
the point, it was all above board, accepted, and even Maman was playing loo for
chicken points. Everything was, well
fun
at
first. We played piquet and dice for counters and I relaxed. Then he said ‘let’s
play for something else.’ I demurred.” She huffed. “Well demur as I could, I’m not
good at being subtle. I said over my dead body. His reply was well it could be
over your maman’s disgraced one. That was when he told me Maman had been
deliberately duping the ton, and unless I gave myself to him, either in wedlock
or out, he would ruin us.”

 
“Bastard.”

“The
cur.” Thom realized Esme was a lot more vehement than him. “As you say Esme,
the bastard. It is a plain as a pikestaff, he doesn’t give a fig about anyone
or anything other than himself.”

“So
how have you coped?” Esme asked her. She poured more wine and slid two glasses
toward them. “I think you’ll need this.”

Sybille
swiveled around, picked them up, and handed one to Thom.

“Thank
you, yes, well, I’m now at a standstill.”

“How
have you
not
coped then? I’m assuming
you haven’t given in to him?”

“Of
course not.” Sybille blushed.

“Ah.”
Esme nodded. “That’s all right then. Go on.”

“I’ve
coped, or not, by being a coward. I’ve avoided being with him, unless there are
others around.”

Esme
harrumphed. “Good gel. So what are you going to do to resolve this, Thom?
Because I’d bet my new chicken coop Sybille won’t agree to set a date until you
have done.”

Thom
glanced from Sybille, who half smiled, to Esme and nodded.

“I
have a plan. I think it will work. At least it stands a better chance now than
before, thanks to your superior knowledge, Esme. Of course, as ever a lot will
depend on others, but this is what I think we can do. May I have paper and pen
to show you the possible chain of events? You’ll know, both of you, if it would
seem feasible from a lady’s point of view. I’d be the first one to admit that most
of the way a woman thinks is incomprehensible to men.” He sipped his wine and
waited for the fireworks to begin.

“That,
dear boy is because our brain is located above our waists,” Esme informed him asperity.
“We are not cock-led.”

Sybille
giggled. Thom did his best to keep a straight face, but it was oh so hard. Esme
mid-rant was a sight to behold.

“As
you say,” Thom said. “We are but poor specimen.”

Esme
snorted. “Special-men or speci-men, never a true word was spoken.”

Sybille
shivered and the tremors communicated to Thom.

“Cold?”

“Goose
over my grave.”

“Well
we can’t have you chilled.” Esme had picked up the exchange. “Let’s go in. Bebb
will be itching to send someone to clear the table.” She stood up. “And I have
brandy indoors, much more warming, you know. We can’t have you getting a chill.
We’ll adjourn to the little parlor.”

“Brandy
at this hour?” Sybille whispered as they stood up to follow Esme’s retreating
form. “I’ll be so bosky I won’t be coherent.”

“Don’t
worry, you won’t have to be. Just compos mentis and know what I’m doing to you.”

“Thom.”
Sybille’s voice was scandalized. “You cannot do anything. We’re in your godmother’s
house. Your unmarried godmother.”

Thom
chuckled and kissed her. He forced himself not to deepen the kiss, to take her
into his arms and go further, as he ached to do. Again, it was not the time or
the place.

“It’s
Esme you’re talking about. Esme, my unconventional godmother. Just who, or what
do you think Bebb is?”

“Her
chef?”

“Apart
from that. Pastry making is not the only skill Bebb has.”