Chapter 1 #2
Sir Peter Somerville was Reggie’s neighbor and one of the higher-ranking men in the area.
“Oh, ho. And Robin.” Reggie waved, but the darkly tanned gentleman didn’t seem to notice. “Somerville’s brother. Navy man. Put out of work by the peace, just like me.”
While Reggie waxed ineloquently about the hijinks he and Robin had got up to as children, movement near the door caught Wes’s eyes.
A young man and woman had entered, both dark haired, both taller than almost everyone here tonight except Wes himself.
As the woman’s gaze traveled the room, he let out a breath. Eyes the color of bluebells sent him a defiant look to match the pouty turned-down lips.
It was her, and gad, she was beautiful. Even more beautiful than when she’d stopped her wagon in front of him in Normanton a few days earlier. By the time he’d reached the Duck and Spoon that afternoon, Reggie had been too jug-bitten to answer questions. But now…
“Who is that?” Wes asked.
“Eh?” Interrupted in his reverie, Reggie glanced up at him.
“The party that just entered. No, don’t point.”
“The matron in the dun-colored gown?”
“No, no. The woman just ahead of her. Tall.”
“Oh. Hah. Why, I believe that’s Sybil Dunsford, all grown up, and with that wild brother of hers, Lang. Lang Picard. Stepbrother. One of ’em. He’s with the revenuers now, I hear. Lucrative trade I’ll wager… for him, if he don’t get caught with his hand out.”
“She has other brothers?”
“Two. A set of twins. Just babies when I left. Surprised they’re not here.”
That would be Cass and Paul.
“Single, or married?”
“Her? Single, I think.” Reggie waggled his eyebrows. “Don’t tell me you’re smitten by that Long Meg.”
Wes smiled. “Smitten?” He laughed and clapped his friend on the back. “Introduce me.”
* * *
Sybil Dunsford handed over her cloak and tucked a loose curl behind her ear.
She wished she had another ballgown to wear, something better than the lavender she’d made when she came out of full mourning for her father. Now, she didn’t have the coin for a length of new fabric, nor, in truth, the skills to make something more elegant.
The assembly room was filled with people she’d known all her life.
Cass and Paul would have loved it. But Paul was abed with a bout of the ague that sometimes afflicted him, and Cass had, on a silly dare from their young groom, tumbled out of the barn loft, landing awkwardly and spraining his ankle so badly, she and Lang had to support him hopping one-legged all the way into the house.
“Quite a turnout tonight,” Langston said.
Langston had only just reached his majority and gained control of the small inheritance left to him by a relative of his mother.
It wasn’t a great deal of money, and, unlike Sybil’s inheritance, there’d been no land attached to it.
Which was just as well; the Picard boys had dreams well beyond what Sussex could offer, and she would ensure they had a place to call home between adventures.
Her brother’s gaze traveled the room and came to a stop on a man of middling years, a miller who’d acquired the Lewis farm next to Devil’s Dyke Grange.
Her heart sank, followed by rising anxiety. “Stay away from Crofton, Lang.”
Crofton might pose as a legitimate businessman, but his barns, storerooms, and millhouses were often filled with contraband goods.
“You have an honest position now. A chance to impress Sir Peter Somerville.” Sir Peter was the principal landholder on this edge of the downs and an honorable man with connections that might help all three of her brothers.
“Don’t worry, Syb. I was never all that involved before.”
Of course, she worried. If he was compromised, he could hang. Or if he gave evidence, Crofton might have him killed.
His attention focused on something past her shoulder. “Look there. Isn’t that Reggie Dalrymple approaching? Who’s the fellow with him?”
Reggie Dalrymple was a close neighbor she’d known since childhood. Though she’d been one of the younger children, she’d also been one of the tallest, and thus welcomed onto the cricket and pall mall fields with the boys.
At the sight of his companion, a ripple of awareness went through her.
Sir Westcott Twisden loomed above everyone.
Besides height, he had shaggy, too-long hair the color of ripened grain, eyes that were more gray than blue, and wide shoulders that hinted at a rangy strength.
He wasn’t prettily handsome like her stepbrothers, but the firm jaw and aquiline nose gave him a look of masculine strength, and the twinkle in his eyes signaled good humor.
And he was taller than her.
Lines were forming in the ballroom for the Roger de Coverley. Would he ask her to dance? Her heart stuttered, wondering what it would be like to not gaze down at a dance partner’s pomaded head.
“Sybie,” Reggie called, jostling a couple out of their way without begging their pardon.
Dear Reggie—he was still a lummox.
She acknowledged his greeting with a dip of her head and found both men standing near. Nor had Lang deserted her, too curious by half about Reggie’s companion.
“And which scapegrace is this, eh?” Reggie teased. “Is this Lang, all grown up?”
“Good evening, Mr. Dalrymple,” Sybil said, teasing him back. “This gentleman is my stepbrother, Mr. Langston Picard.”
Reggie’s smile broadened, and he puffed out his chest. “And I’m Captain Dalrymple, Sybie. Well-met, Mr. Langston Picard. Miss Sybil Dunsford, this here is my good, upstanding friend, Sir Westcott Twisden.” He winked. “Anxious to meet you, Syb. Might be he’ll want you on his cricket team.”
Sir Westcott clapped his friend on the back. “Don’t mind Reggie, Miss Dunsford,” he said. “I wouldn’t trouble you with cricket tonight, but I’d dearly like to lead you out in a dance.”
Before she could answer, he reached for her. Without thinking, she set her hand in his, and the smug smile he sent her had her questioning her good sense. His blustery confidence reminded her too much of her brothers.
“Do not worry,” he said. “I’ve been practicing my steps for years. Enough to not step on your toes. Though I certainly flattened my stepmama’s a few times when the dancing master brought her in to partner me. She always complained my feet were far too big for her tiny ones to dodge them.”
“Did you consider the size of my feet before deciding to ask me to dance?”
A shocked look flashed on his face and then he laughed. “Beg pardon. That’s another thing Stepmama used to drill me on—how to avoid sticking my large foot in my equally large mouth.”
While he seemed to be taking a deep breath, she wondered if this proper and diminutive stepmama was also attending this party.
“No, Miss Dunsford,” Sir Westcott said solemnly, “when I saw you, I said to myself, that is the most beautiful girl in the room, and I must have a dance with her.”
She stumbled and his hand came to her elbow, supporting her.
“Most beautiful?” she asked. “Do you not mean the tallest?”
His eyes twinkled. “Both.”
While she felt her cheeks warming, mercifully the music started, and she tamed her unexpected emotions. Which were... What? Embarrassment? She was used to being the Long Meg on every occasion. But this sudden rush of warmth, of awareness… Was she attracted to Sir Westcott Twisden?