Valentine (47 page)

She leaned across and pecked him on the cheek. “Don’t be stuffy.”

“Someone needs to be where you’re concerned,” Edward said, burying his nose in his coffee cup to hide his reluctant grin.

Theo, perfectly satisfied with this response, pushed back her chair. “If Clarry has to be back in two hours, and I have to be back to look after my mama-in-law, we’d better get moving. I’ve no idea how long this is going to take.”

A renewed chorus of
What?
rose round the table, but she just grinned mischievously and went into the hall to give order for the barouche to be brought around.

Fifteen minutes later the three of them were on their way to a discreet establishment on Bond Street.

S
YLVESTER AWOKE WHILE
his wife was spearing bacon in the Belmont breakfast parlor. He lay for a few minutes savoring his bodily ease and the miraculous absence of pain. His mind still retained the ghastly memories of his agony, and the memories made the present sense of well-being even more precious.

“My lord.” Henry, alert to the slightest hint of movement from the bed, drew back the bed curtains, an anxious smile on his lips.

“Good morning, Henry. What’s the time?” “Past nine o’clock, sir.”

“Good God!” His mind flew to Theo. He saw her face, hovering over him, her smile, those pansy-blue eyes filled with compassion and something even deeper than that. It was that something that had soothed him, had stopped his protests at her presence during his torture. He could feel her hand on his brow, cool and soft.

He sat up on his pillows. “I’m not mistaken in believing that Lady Stoneridge was in here?”

“No, my lord.”

“Why the devil did you let her in?” Henry cleared his throat. “I didn’t, sir. She came through the window.”

“What?”
He remembered she’d told him she’d flown through the window, but it had meant nothing to him at the time.

He swung out of bed and strode to the window, flinging it wide onto the noisy bustle of London town waking for business. He stepped out onto the balcony, looked across at Theo’s, then looked down into the street. His scalp crawled as he imagined that perilous crossing.

The woman was incorrigible. Utterly, totally incorrigible.

He returned inside, shivering at the chill wind blowing through his nightshirt. “Bath, Henry.”

“Right away, my lord. And breakfast.” Henry hurried to the door, then paused. “Oh, her ladyship asked me to give you this as soon as you awoke.” He hastened back to the secretaire and handed the earl the folded paper.

“Thank you.” Just what was she up to now? Sylvester ran a hand over his unshaven chin with a grimace. “Hurry with that hot water, man.”

Henry left, and the earl opened the sheet. Theo’s distinctive script jumped off the page at him:

Dearest Sylvester
,

Henry assured me that you’ll be quite well when you awake, or
I
wouldn’t have left. I will be in Brook Street when you’re able to come and find me. Your mama is still asleep, so I feel sure she won’t need me for a couple of hours.

Love, Theo.

Two large impetuous-looking kisses followed the signature. He folded the letter again and placed it in a drawer in his secretaire, a slight smile curving his mouth. She had never called him “dearest” before. The whole tone of the note was different from her usual undecorative communications, and he knew Theo was incapable of dissembling her feelings. They
spilled from her with the purity of the bubbling source of a mountain stream. He saw her eyes again as they’d been during those dreadful hours, and a spurt of joy shot into his veins.

Henry came in with a breakfast tray, followed by two footmen bearing a hip bath and jugs of hot water. Sylvester’s nose twitched at the aroma of coffee, and he sat down hungrily to break his long fast while his bath was filled.

Theo was still going to have to go back to Stoneridge, he decided. Just until he’d sorted out Neil Gerard. Then, with the past securely behind him and no shameful revelations to fear, he would go to her and they would break new ground with this marriage.

That settled, he enjoyed a leisurely bath and shave and dressed in buckskins and top boots. Henry eased a coat of olive superfine over the powerful shoulders and handed him gloves and his hat.

Filled with the euphoric well-being that he knew as well as the hell that preceded it, Sylvester strolled down the stairs. There seemed to be no sign of his mother or his sister, he thought with guilty relief. With luck he’d be out of the house before they put in an appearance.

“Have my horse brought round, Foster.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“With all dispatch,” he added, casting an involuntary glance over his shoulder at the stairs.

Foster bowed, that glimmer of unholy amusement in his eye again. “Certainly, my lord. And what should I tell her ladyship when she comes down?”

“Uh … uh … oh, that Lady Stoneridge and I had some very important business to conduct, but that we’ll join them for nuncheon,” Sylvester said.

“Quite so, my lord.”

“So what do you think?” Theo made a slow turn in front of Edward.

Edward stared at this extraordinary vision. “It’s shocking,” he said slowly.

“Yes, isn’t it?” Clarry agreed. “I couldn’t believe it. Emily and I just sat there like dummies while Monsieur Charles snipped away and it all fell all over the floor, yards and yards of it.”

“Oh, you exaggerate,” Theo said. “There wasn’t that much.”

“There was,” Emily said. “You’ve never cut it, not even an inch.”

“Well, I have now,” Theo declared with undeniable truth. “I know it’s a shock, Edward, but do you like it?” She stood on tiptoe to peer at her reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece.

“It’s very sophisticated,” Edward pronounced after a minute. “And you don’t look at all like yourself.”

“But is that a good thing or a bad thing?” Theo demanded impatiently. “I like it. What do you think, Jonathan?”

Clarissa’s beloved looked up from his easel, cast an abstracted eye in Theo’s direction, and announced, “Clarissa must never do such a thing.”

Theo raised her eyebrows, wondering if that was an answer to her question. If it was, it wasn’t particularly encouraging, although judging from Clarissa’s delicate flush, she had found the proscription thoroughly pleasing.

“Theo, Stoneridge has just ridden up,” Emily said from the window, where she’d been gazing down onto the street.

“Ah,” her sister said, coming to stand beside her at the window. Sylvester swung off Zeus, tossing the reins to an urchin who’d run up to him as soon as he’d drawn rein.

“This is going to be interesting,” Theo murmured, her heart jumping with pleasure as she looked down at him, anticipating the feel of him beside her. Sylvester stood for a minute on the pavement, tapping his whip into the palm of one hand, before he strode rapidly up the steps to the front door.

Theo turned to face the parlor door, a tiny smile on her lips.

The door opened and Sylvester entered the room. Whatever he’d been about to say died at birth. He stared in disbelief at his wife. “What the
devil
have you done, Theo?” he demanded, once he got his breath back.

“Do you like it?” She tilted her head on one side, imps of mischief dancing in her eyes that seemed even larger than usual.

“Come here!”

“Do you like it?” she repeated. “I said
come
here!”

Everyone but Theo jumped, and Clarissa flinched at this bellowed command. Theo obeyed with some alacrity.

He caught her chin, turning it from side to side to examine her profile. Then he turned her round and examined the back view. “I ought to wring your scrawny little neck,” he declared finally.

“But you like my neck,” she said with an air of injured innocence, turning back to face him. “Don’t you think it’s a sophisticated cut?”

“Yes,” he said reluctantly. “But I’ve lost my gypsy.” Theo was transformed. The raven’s-wing hair now clustered in soft curls around the small head, glossy ringlets falling over her ears and wisping over her forehead. It gave an elfin look to the gamine features and accentuated the size and depth of her eyes in the most startling way.

“Oh, Theo.” Elinor’s shocked voice came suddenly from the open door behind them.

“My sentiments exactly, ma’am,” Stoneridge said dryly. “Why would you do such a thing, Theo?”

“I’ve been meaning to for days,” she said. “It is my hair, Sylvester. Mine to do with as I please.”

“Did you sell it?” asked Rosie, who’d come in with Elinor.

“Sell it?” Theo looked down at the child in surprise. “Good heavens, no. What do you mean?”

“I read in the
Gazette
how you can get a lot of money by selling your hair,” Rosie informed her. “Particularly if it’s unusual, like yours is … or was,” she added bluntly. “They make wigs out of it for people who don’t have enough of their own.”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Theo said. She shrugged. “Well, I left mine on Monsieur Charles’s floor.”

“Then I expect he sold it himself,” Rosie said. “And he’ll get all the profit. I suppose you didn’t think about it because you have plenty of money. I always seem to find myself short,” she said in doleful afterthought.

“On which subject, Stoneridge …” She turned to her brother-in-law with an air of resolution. “I still owe you that three shillings for the spider book. Would you mind if I paid it in installments? I could pay one shilling this month.”

Sylvester blinked, for a moment confused. Then he remembered. “It was a gift, Rosie.”

“Oh, no,” she said solemnly. “I most particularly remember that it was a loan. You said my IOU would be satisfactory.”

Sylvester looked distinctly embarrassed at the implication that he would take three shillings from a little girl. He felt as he had done that summer afternoon when he’d eaten her apple tartlets. “My child, I was only funning. Of course it was a gift.”

Rosie considered this, then said, “Well, thank you very much, Stoneridge. I didn’t quite understand that at the time.” She wandered out of the room.

“Not much else you could say, really?” Theo murmured to Sylvester. “She rather put you on the spot.”

“Are you saying she brought up the subject in that fashion deliberately?”

“It’s hard to tell with Rosie.” Theo chuckled. “But she does like to have things explained exactly, and since you didn’t say it was a gift, I’m sure she genuinely assumed it was a loan.”

“Well, it wasn’t,” he said, aggrieved, and wondered how long it would take him to get the hang of these complicated Belmonts. Every time he thought he was almost there, one or the other of them did or said something unfathomable.

“Do you really dislike my hair, Mama?” Theo had turned to her mother, and there was genuine anxiety in the question.

“No, I believe it suits you,” Elinor said slowly. “We’ll get used to it. In a day or two I’m sure we’ll forget what it used to be like.”

Sylvester doubted that he would. That blue-black river had been the focus of some of his most richly sensual pleasures. But Elinor was right—it
did
suit Theo.

“Clarissa, please don’t move your head,” Jonathan said suddenly from his corner, where he stood with his back to the wall, jealously guarding the canvas on the easel.

Clarissa murmured an apology and tried to sit still. “Couldn’t I see it, Jonathan?”

“Yes, let us see it,” Emily begged. “We’re all dying of curiosity, and we’ve been so good and haven’t so much as peeked when you’re not here.”

“An artist always keeps his canvases private until they’re finished,” Jonathan said, frowning. “It’s customary.”

“Oh, break custom, just this once.” Theo crossed the room. “We know it must be wonderful. Do let us see?”

The young man flushed and laid down his brush and palette, saying hesitantly, “Well, if you really wish to—”

“We do.” Theo smiled encouragingly. “Won’t you turn it around?”

With an air of resolution Jonathan turned the easel to face the room. There was a moment of silence.

“Why, that’s charming, Mr. Lacey,” Elinor said faintly.

Sylvester felt Theo quivering with suppressed laughter and clasped the back of her neck firmly. His own countenance was severely schooled to an appropriate gravity.

Clarissa examined the portrait. “It’s … it’s very pretty, Jonathan. Does it really look like me?”

“Of course,” Theo said stoutly, responding to the cue given by the warm, hard fingers on her neck. “It looks just like you would look if you were a nymph in a Roman pavilion. Jonathan has the curve of your mouth exactly right, and the color of your hair.”

“But why would you paint her in those funny pieces of material floating all over the place when she’s wearing a perfectly pretty gown?” asked Rosie, who’d returned as vaguely as she’d left. “And if you’re painting her in the parlor, why is she sitting by that fountain?”

“It’s the artistic vision, Rosie,” Clarissa said in vigorous championship of her knight. “Artists paint what they see.”

“Well, you must have very strange eyes, Mr. Lacey,” Rosie observed, taking an apple from a fruit bowl on the table and scrunching into it. “Even worse than mine.”