One Forbidden Evening (Zebra Historical Romance) Page 16

  Cybelline felt certain she had almost made him stumble, but then he had gone on smoothly, and she began to doubt herself. She was hoping for some incongruent detail that she might drop casually in conversation with Mrs. Lowell. If the housekeeper became suspicious that the visitor to the cottage was not Lady Bellingham’s grandson, mayhap Ferrin could be convinced to leave Penwyckham before the villagers ran at him with pitchforks and rakes. She could not, however, simply give up what she knew to be true without sacrificing her own identity. Ferrin would know there was but one way she could be privy to any particular about him and that was because she was Boudicca.

  “The viscountess’s desire to see you wed becomes more clear to me,” Cybelline told him. “She is your mother’s mother, is she not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then she is desirous that her line not end with you.”

  “So she has told me.”

  “I imagine they are some of the more pertinent words you exchanged with her.”

  “You understand it very well.”

  Cybelline shrugged. “Sherry exchanged similar words with Aunt Georgia.” She inclined her head a tad, a gesture that admitted her own role in the conversation. “And with me,” she said.

  “You said your brother was married. I believe you also mentioned a daughter.” He watched her carefully, but there was no indication that she was thinking of her own child. In some ways, the fact that she had not revealed she had a daughter was telling. No doubt she thought she had ample reason not to share this information with the Earl of Ferrin, but there was no reason that he knew of not to share the same with Mr. Wellsley. He wondered how he might use this to his advantage. “Sheridan is either a dutiful godson and brother, or he met the woman who made him think that marriage and children was in no way objectionable.”

  “Sherry is dutiful. I cannot say otherwise about him, but in this instance, it is the latter. Lily is his heart.”

  He saw a shadow pass quickly across her features. It seemed her breath caught, then was eased slowly out of her. Had she been thinking of her own husband? he wondered. Ferrin tried to imagine the sort of man the late Mr.Caldwell had been to recommend him to this woman. All he knew was that Caldwell had made a study of the same type of artifacts that interested Sir Richard Settle at Cambridge and that he’d put a pistol to his head. It was so little in the way of intelligence that Ferrin cautioned himself about making any assumptions regarding the man’s character. Had he suspected that upon meeting Mrs. Caldwell he would end his search for Boudicca, he would have taken the time to learn more about her husband.

  Cybelline stood suddenly. The rug fell away from her lap. She stooped to pick it up and folded it as she straightened. “I fear I have been ill-mannered in the extreme.” She pointed to the journal she had seen him carry into the room with her valise. “I see that you meant to read this evening, and I have kept you from that pleasure and the comfort of your bed. I only meant to determine if all was well at the Sharpe house and know for myself that you were safely returned.”

  Ferrin came to his feet. “I had no objections to passing the time in such a fashion, but mayhap you have some regrets.”

  Oddly enough, she had none. “No, Mr. Wellsley, I do not.” She placed the blanket on the chair behind her. When she turned it was to find Ferrin making a study of her. Unprepared for his close regard and more than a little afraid of what he might discover, Cybelline hurried to the door. She picked up the valise and held it front of her like a shield. “I wish you a pleasant night. I am certain I will be gone from your house in the morning.”

  He did not raise an objection to this, though he doubted it was true. She had badly miscalculated the fury of the storm. He had passed through snowdrifts several feet high on his return. It was unlikely she could leave without assistance from him.

  “Goodnight, Mrs. Caldwell.”

  She nodded once, opening the door. “Thank you again.”

  Ferrin watched her go. The door clicked into place, and he was alone. It had been on the tip of his tongue to tell her that he had a goodnight message from her daughter, but the cruelty of it stayed him. She would have to inform him that there was a child. It was not something that could be kept secret. Perhaps she would realize by morning that she had made a mistake by not telling him already. He would probably let it pass. The stranger truth of the evening was that he had enjoyed himself in her company.

  He did not yet know what to make of it.

  Ferrin picked up Berzelius’s work and turned it over in his hands. He doubted it could hold his interest now, not when the chemical action of a different sort of electricity was pooling all the blood from his head to his groin.

  Cybelline was drinking tea with Mrs. Lowell when Ferrin came downstairs in the morning. She was wearing the clothes he had brought back from the Sharpe house: a practical wool serge gown suitable for riding, heavy woolen stockings, and brown leather boots. When she saw his eyes drift to her feet, she pulled them back modestly and tucked them under the hem of her dress.

  Mrs. Lowell rose to her feet upon Ferrin entering the kitchen. “It’s the smell of baking bread that woke you, I’ll wager. I’m not giving away a secret when I say it’s just the thing to lure a man from his bed.”

  “Indeed,” Ferrin said dryly.

  “Will you have some tea, sir? There’s porridge in the pot, and I’ll give you a thick slice of the bread, toasted if you like. The storm made the hens skittish. Mr. Lowell couldn’t find but two eggs this morning, and I’ll need them for my special custard.”

  “I will eat anything you put before me,” Ferrin said, meaning it. He was inordinately hungry. “You have broken your fast?”

  “Hours ago,” Mrs. Lowell said, unaware he had directed his inquiry to Mrs. Caldwell. “She’s been waiting patiently for you to rouse yourself so she might return home.”

  Ferrin pulled out a chair and sat at the table. “I believe I am being admonished for lying abed.”

  Cybelline had her teacup halfway to her mouth. She regarded it rather than look directly at Ferrin. “I have not been up so long as that, but I am often an early riser.”

  “And this morning you hoped to be gone at first light.”

  Nodding, she made no attempt to hide her disappointment. “I had no idea how deep the snow had become. Mr. Lowell walked through a drift waist high to get to the henhouse.”

  Ferrin glanced around. He could not see to every corner of the lodge, but he had an expansive view from the kitchen, and Mr. Lowell was nowhere in sight. “Where is the man of very few words this morning?”

  It was Mrs. Lowell who answered, her voice oddly distorted as she bent over the porridge pot. “He’s shoveling a path to the necessary and another to the curing shed. Then he means to feed the cattle.”

  Remembering what Mrs. Lowell had said about her husband’s rheumatism, Ferrin wondered that the hosteler could manage to labor long out of doors. He started to rise just as Mrs. Lowell turned away from the hearth.

  “Where are you going, sir?”

  “It occurs to me that Mr. Lowell could use an extra pair of hands.”

  “Sure, but he’s had his breakfast, hasn’t he? It’s no help at all if you’re facedown in a drift and have to be carted back here.”

  One of Ferrin’s eyebrows kicked up. It was indicative of admonishment, and blessed silence usually followed. Mrs. Lowell, he noted, was perfectly oblivious to this communication. She chattered on as she set the bowl of porridge before him and while she busied herself toasting the bread. She did not seem to tire of the sound of her own voice. When he glanced sideways at Mrs. Caldwell, he saw she was unable to hide her amusement. The edges of her mouth were lifted above the rim of the teacup. He slowly sat.

  “Sherry has an expression such as yours,” Cybelline said. “One eyebrow lifted in that same perfect arch, though I believe he favors the right one, while you seem partial to the left.”

  Ferrin’s tone was wry. “I am always willing to accept direction in these matte
rs. Is the right eyebrow more effective, do you think?”

  “I believe either has its limits. The scoundrels, for instance, are immune.”

  “The scoundrels?”

  “Mmmm.” Cybelline set down her cup and offered to pour for Ferrin. “The scoundrels are my brother’s wards. Milk? Sugar?” At his double nod, she gave him some of each. “Pinch, Dash, and Midge, if you can credit it. There is considerable debate about finding more suitable appellations, but nothing has been decided. Beowulf has been mentioned, I believe.”

  “I understand the problem, then.”

  She smiled. “They are dear boys. Holborn’s castoffs. All of them using their rum daddles to become boman prigs. It remains a question whether Sherry rescued them or the other way around, but they have been in his care for several years now.”

  Ferrin picked up his spoon and plunged it into the thick porridge. “Rum daddles?”

  Cybelline held up her hands and wiggled her fingers. “Skilled hands. A boman prig is an adept at thievery.”

  “I had no idea that Sheridan was a social reformer.”

  “He is not, and he is always pleased to inform me of all the ways he is not. Yet I entertain no doubts that he has reformed the society of those three young ruffians. They will say the same.”

  “His wife has no quarrel with three boys living under their roof?”

  Cybelline shook her head, and her flint-colored eyes took on a distant, secretive aspect. “No,” she said, smiling faintly. “Lily has no quarrel.”

  Ferrin did not press for more information. He sensed that she had said as much on the matter as she would. Indeed, her offering seemed out of character. Perhaps the raised eyebrow had been used to good effect after all. He tucked into his porridge. He had not had the like since he was in short pants, and he found an appreciation of the the taste and the memories.

  Mrs. Lowell set a thick slice of toast before him, richly spread with raspberry jam. The tea was hot and sweetened just to his liking, and Ferrin had the thought that following Mrs. Caldwell to Penwyckham might have been one of Wellsley’s truly inspired ideas.

  Cybelline folded her palms around her warm cup. Her hands and feet still felt chilled and sometimes one shiver chased another along the length of her spine. She was eager to go home and could think of nothing else to do but say so. “I am exceedingly aware of the great kindness you have already shown me, but I must press for another favor, Mr. Wellsley.”

  “You have only to ask, Mrs. Caldwell.” He held up one hand, staying her request a moment longer. “However, if it is your wish that I escort you back to the Sharpe house, then you need not ask at all. It will be my pleasure to do so when I have finished.”

  “That is good of you, but I was only going to ask that you will permit me to borrow one of the horses. I would not ask for yours, of course, but Mr. Lowell informed me there are two others stabled here that he uses for the wagon and turning over the garden. He says both have gentle natures. I thought I might take one of them.”

  “I see.” He was mildly surprised she hadn’t made off with one of the animals already. Clearly she did not want him to accompany her home. “I don’t think I like you setting off alone, Mrs. Caldwell. I could not forgive myself if you didn’t arrive safely.”

  “That’s what I told her,” Mrs. Lowell said. She clucked her tongue to emphasize this point. “Mr. Lowell told her she would have to defer to your good judgment, as you made the trek once yourself.”

  Ferrin glanced at Cybelline for confirmation. “He said all that?”

  “More or less.” She thought about it. “Mostly less.”

  The housekeeper removed the porridge pot from the hearth and began scraping it clean with a large wooden spoon. “Some days I don’t know what goes through that man’s mind.”

  “I imagine he was depending upon me to stay her,” Ferrin said. “He could not bring himself to tell her no, so it has fallen to me.”

  Mrs. Lowell looked up from the bowels of the iron pot. “You might be in the right of it there, Mr. Wellsley. Mr. Lowell does have a tender heart. A man has to when he doesn’t say more than six words of a morning.”

  Six words? Ferrin had never heard so many strung together. He addressed Mrs. Caldwell. “We will look at the animals and determine which is the more suitable for you to ride. You will not go alone, however. The toll for leaving today is that you accept my escort.”

  Cybelline nodded once. “Then I shall be glad to have it.”

  Ferrin observed her fingertips pressing whitely against her cup, though he could not say if the action gave lie to her words or whether she was thinking of what else must be said. In a moment he had his answer.

  “I think you will appreciate my urgency, Mr. Wellsley, when I explain that it is for my daughter’s sake that I must return.”

  At best it was a partial truth, Ferrin thought. It was not only for her daughter’s sake that she wished to leave quickly, but for her own as well. “You did not mention her yesterday.”

  “No.” She hesitated. “I did not think it would influence your objections to me returning, but today is a different matter. The sun is out, and while it is still bitterly cold and travel will be difficult, I am determined to go. I must know my daughter is all of a piece.”

  Ferrin was aware that Mrs. Lowell was scraping the pot with less industry than she’d previously applied to the task. He chose his words carefully. “Did you not believe me when I told you all was well at the Sharpe house?”

  “I…of course I believed you.”

  “I had that information from your housekeeper. We can assume, can we not, that all was inclusive of your daughter?”

  “It is not the same as seeing for myself.”

  “You might have inquired about her.” It had not occurred to him that he would see the same vague shadow of pain crossing her features as when memories of her husband intruded, yet he knew he was not mistaken. He watched her quickly raise the teacup to her lips as she collected herself.

  “I have learned to embrace privacy as my right, Mr. Wellsley. Not every aspect of one’s life needs to be laid open for public inspection.”

  She showed a remarkable economy of words in delivering a set down, Ferrin thought. She had also managed to capture the high ground. He knew this because he’d been figuratively flattened. A glance at Mrs. Lowell confirmed that she, too, was impressed. All that was left for him to do was try to rise and dust himself off.

  “I thought that might be the way of it,” he said, oddly pleased to discover a talent for putting forth the bold lie. “When you did not inquire after your daughter’s welfare last evening, I assumed it was because you meant no one to know that she was in residence.”

  “No, that is, it’s—”

  “Then you meant that I shouldn’t know.” Ferrin was glad to be on his feet again. “I cannot imagine why that is, Mrs. Caldwell.”

  She set her cup down so firmly the saucer rattled. “Because it should be of no importance to anyone save me. I do not know you, Mr. Wellsley, and while you have shown me every manner of charity, you are no part of what is private in my life.”

  Ferrin realized he was not as steady on his feet as he’d thought. Mrs. Lowell’s attention had gone from mild interest to avidly curious. He would shock her into apoplexy if he answered Mrs. Caldwell more honestly than she had him. He was part of her private life, her most secret life, and he need only remind her of how she had come in his arms to drive that point home.

  Ferrin said nothing, however, nor did he give her any reason to suspect what he was thinking. For now he merely accepted what she served up, knowing full well there would be a reckoning. And he intended that it should be a most private affair.

  Newton and a dappled mare named Divinity were waiting for Ferrin and Cybelline at the back door of the cottage. Mr. Lowell delivered the reins to each of them in turn and helped them mount, then strapped Cybelline’s valise behind the mare’s saddle.

  The path Ferrin took the previous night had va
nished under drifts of snow, but he had marked his way through the trees and knew the easiest route to reach what passed for the road. Cybelline turned up the chinchilla collar of her pelisse and followed in his wake. She was a competent rider, though not accomplished, and was glad that her mare was brought so easily around after a brief test of wills. Divinity was perfectly content to accept the gelding’s lead. Perhaps she realized, Cybelline thought, that Newton was doing the hard work, pushing through deep crests of snow as if they were no more than a nuisance.

  Occasionally Ferrin turned to satisfy himself that she was still in her saddle and not upended in a drift as tall as she was. Cybelline always nodded in recognition of his concern, but he offered nothing in return. His expression remained one of complete indifference. She did not think he would have been pleased to find her sprawled on the ground but that he wouldn’t have cared. He seemed equally unimpressed that she remained in her seat.

  She was supremely aware that there was much that was unsettled between them. She could own now that she had erred in not telling him about Anna at the outset, though even he must allow that there was little opportunity to do so when she first arrived. He had departed for the Sharpe house so quickly that she hadn’t had time to reflect on what was in her best interests to say to him. Her decision to seek him out last night was prompted by her need to know if he had learned of Anna’s existence. She was relieved in some measure when he made no mention of her daughter and decided then that she would not say more. In the event that he discovered she was Boudicca, she did not want him to be able to use her own child as leverage for whatever demands he might make.

  Cybelline’s thinking had changed when Ferrin insisted upon accompanying her home. There was nothing for it but that she tell him, else he would wonder why she had not done so. Her secret was from Ferrin, not Mr. Wellsley. It troubled her that he had adopted a certain air of indignation when she disclosed Anna’s existence, and obviously believed he had the right to question her. It raised her hackles to be asked to provide answers in so preemptory a fashion, as if he were her brother…or her husband.