Chapter Twenty-two
The performance was excellent, and Sylvie had no difficulty pretending it held her complete attention — though she had comprehended not one single word. Her head was too occupied with the conundrum that was the man sitting beside her.
At first, she had feared he merely tolerated her company out of a sense of duty.
Yet each day, bit by bit, his austere manner towards her had softened.
Only small, subtle changes. A shadow of a smile at something she said, a swallowed laugh at one of her quips, a conspiratorial glance when they were cornered in company.
She had tried to keep her head from running away with her heart, tried not to romanticise every gesture.
But last night — he had danced. At a ball.
With her. Simply because he wished only to please her.
And now, tonight, he had actually told her he thought her quite beautiful…
and presented her with a token of his affection.
A mere trinket, he said, but surely one did not carefully select such gems and design a setting for some trifling trinket.
Gentlemen who were indifferent did not do such things, did they?
Surely one would not go to such lengths to please another unless…
And they were to be married. So why? Why would he not kiss her?
By the time the intermission was about to start, she had come to the conclusion Betsy was right — he needed some encouragement.
And, sensing he was readying to lean towards her to speak, she decided there was only one thing for it.
Taking a deep breath and painting on her prettiest of smiles, she turned quickly towards him.
He stared at her for a moment. “Is something the matter? Do you have something in your eye?”
“Pardon?” she gasped. “No… I’m fluttering my eyelashes at you.”
He coughed back a laugh at her honesty. “Why? It looks rather uncomfortable.”
“It’s supposed to look … oh, never mind,” she sighed. “Shall we go and take a refreshment?”
“Fruit punch?”
“Champagne, please. I have rather a fondness for it.”
“Of course,” he murmured, rising to lead her from their private box.
As they made their way through the crowded hall towards the reception rooms, a group of young ladies caught Sylvie’s attention. Feeling her hesitate, and seeing she was eager to talk to them, and no doubt show off her ring, he guided her towards them.
“I shall return with your champagne,” he said, inclining his head slightly. “Ladies.” He gave a brief nod and retreated.
It took an inordinate amount of time to procure two glasses and fend off all who sought to engage him in conversation. By the time he returned to the spot he had left Sylvie, she was gone.
“Where is Miss Mason?”
“Why, Lord Westland, we thought she was with you,” said a young brunette, eyes wide. “She… she received your note and hurried off to meet you.”
Panic reared like a startled stallion. His mind tumbling frantically as to why or who would lure her away. “Which way did she go?” he growled, startling the little flock before him. “Which way!”
“Umm, that way,” stammered a redhead, pointing, “towards the… the terrace.”
“I see.”
Realising he was starting to cause concern, or more likely, feed their appetite for gossip, he forced his tone back under control. “Thank you. She seems to have gone the wrong way.”
Knowing her well enough to be certain she hadn’t snuck off to meet a lover did nothing to ease his concern.
Someone had lured her away. But why — or more worrying — who?
The questions pounded in his skull, though, chillingly, he knew it could be one of many who wished to use her against him, to persuade his opinions to their own, or extract a ransom.
He and Southerby dabbled too often in dangerous, murky waters — shifting influence, altering outcomes, redirecting fortunes.
There were many who would welcome the chance for revenge if they knew.
Or was it Louis? The Comte de Roche? Their most dangerous adversary. But why would he take Sylvie?
Anger and panic collided, spilling from his lips as a guttural, “Fuck!” He shoved his way through the door, the sound of it smashing against the outer wall echoing like a gunshot, increasing his fury. Why had he left her unattended? If he was too late…
He halted mid-stride as the cool night air hit him squarely.
He stood still, letting his eyes adjust to the semi-darkness and took a deep, calming breath to steady his mind.
He needed his wits more than his temper to hunt.
His instincts were on high alert, an uncommon panic surging through him.
Listening, he moved across the empty terrace and down the steps to the garden, as silent and swift as a predator.
If Louis had taken her… if any harm came to her…
A sound. A muffled voice.
He quickened his pace, moving silently in the direction of the noise, then froze. There, beneath the dim lantern glow, stood Sylvie, her back to the bandstand wall, and a young man leaning far too close. Westland’s fists clenched, his vision narrowing to a dangerous focus.
“Sylvie, my sweet,” the man crooned, “I know you want to. You could not keep your eyes off me at the ball last night.”
“I… I don’t know what you are talking about, I never…”
“What’s the harm? You’re to be married soon,” he sneered, running his finger salaciously down her cheek, his eyes lustfully devouring her décolletage.
“Why not have a little fun before you’re lumbered with that miserable oaf.
From what I hear, you are hardly virtuous.
Already had a tumble in a secret garden to secure your prize. ”
Westland, shaking with rage, readied to spring — but Sylvie’s voice suddenly rose, steady and furious, freezing him in place.
“You… you maggoty piece of offal! I’ll have you know my future husband is… is kind and romantic, and passionate, and amusing… and the only man I ever want to kiss! Now get your hands off me, you filthy bilge rat, you… you… simpering dandy, before I… I…”
“My, my, Miss Mason, what a wicked tongue you have, but come now,” he sneered, looming over her, “let us put it to better use, you little tease… I won’t tell if you don’t.”
In two swift strides, Westland was upon him.
“You cockless, spineless little cur,” he thundered as his huge, powerful hand seized the man by the throat, slamming him against the bandstand wall.
His boots left the ground as Westland’s grip tightened.
“I’ll snap yer useless fucking neck if I ever catch you near my wife again — do you understand? ”
Bowland, clawed frantically at Westland’s wrist, gasping, “Yes - yes - a - misunderstanding, tis all - my apologies - my lord - please - let - go - I - can - not - breathe!”
“Aye, well, remember that feeling, Bowland,” Westland growled, “and be thankful I have too much respect for your grandfather to relieve him of a grandson without notice. But if you dare to so much as look upon my wife again, I’ll not be so generous. Do ye ken?”
Instantly releasing his grip before he administered any irreparable damage, he let the younger man fall heavily into a heap, coughing and clutching his throat.
Still shaking with rage, Westland turned slowly to Sylvie and swallowed hard, forcing the fury from his tone, so as not to frighten her further. “Are you alright, Blossom?”
“Rather!” she cried with a little whoop and clap of her hands. “That was… was spectacular.”
He took a step back in surprise, then merely shook his head. “Right. Home. Now.”
* * *
“How did you know where to find me?” Sylvie asked breathlessly as she settled beside him in the speeding carriage.
“And… and could you really snap a man’s neck, just like that?
And what does fooking mean? It sounds rather risqué.
Oh… and cockless! I understand what spineless is, but what was it… cockless? Oh, do please explain?”
Exasperated, he snapped, “I will do no such thing. They are profanities no lady should ever hear, and I should never have uttered them in your presence, I was just… just…”
“Fooking cross? Yes, I think I understand the placement. Is it like an adjective? Though cockless… If spineless is someone without a spine, why a cock? I do not understand how telling someone he owns no rooster can be considered a wicked profanity?”
“Just trust me. It is.”
“Mm?” she hummed, tapping her fingers against her chin thoughtfully. “Cock, cock, cock… whatever could it be? A cock…?”
“Sylvie, enough!”
“But would my pirate or highwayman use the expression? I assume they must have one of these prized cocks, if to insult someone was to deem them cock-less?”
Angus buried his face in his hands. Shaking his head, resigned to his doom, he bit out through gritted teeth, “Curse it, woman, it… it’s another word for part of the… a part of the male anatomy.”
“Oh,” she murmured, a little furrow appearing on her brow, then her eyes flew wide open. “Oooooh!”
All he could do was groan.
“Is… is…” she whispered through splayed fingers, far too delighted for his liking, “you mean it’s your… your manhood?”
“Right, that’s enough. Young ladies should not know of such things, let alone voice them. Now, where is this note? Do you still have it?”
“Umm, oh, yes, yes, here. You see, I thought it was from you, so I… well, it is though, isn’t it?”
He snatched the paper from her and read aloud. “Sylvie, my sweet, meet me in the garden if you wish for a secret rendezvous. B.”
“Yes, exactly,” she said, wafting her little hand airily, as if in explanation. “So I hurried along to meet you.”
He threw up his hands in exasperation. “What? Why? Why would I wish to lure you away for a… a secret rendezvous? We have a private box!”
“Well, I thought you might, you know… want to be romantic. I had just fluttered my eyelashes at you.”
“What…?” he spluttered. “It’s signed with a B!”
“Beloved?” she whispered, a little timidly.
He had no doubt she was telling the truth, but he was not sure that made him feel any better.
Not only was she completely gullible — she was also harbouring romance delusions.
“Now listen to me, Sylvie,” he said sternly.
“Never, ever go trotting off like that again. And know this — I will never send you a note luring you into some secret assignation, as ours is not that kind of acquaintance.”
“Mm,” she mused, “I did think it rather odd.”
“Yes, well, lead with that in future.”
“And the handwriting, though not dissimilar, was not quite as elegant as yours. I just thought you must have written it in a hurry.”
He exhaled heavily, equal parts frustration and relief, as the carriage drew to a stop outside Mason House. “Right, let us get you inside. Are you sure you’re unharmed?”
“Oh, yes, indeed. It was the most exciting evening I have ever had… and very enlightening. Though,” she added seriously, leaning a little closer, “I think we ought to keep the most part to ourselves, don’t you?”
“Yes. I most certainly do. Right, out with you.”
* * *
Later that night, Westland sat at his desk with a face like thunder as he dashed off a note to Humber, while across town, Sylvie sat at her own intricately inlaid writing desk, dreamily twirling the quill between her fingers.
Finally, dipping the tip into the ink pot, she smiled to herself as she began to write,
My dearest Angus…
Sleep entirely evades me, for I think I may burst from all the excitement — the way you charged in and rescued me from the villainous clutches of that nasty little weasel, Bowland.
My very own knight in shining armour! I feel like the heroine in a scandalous romance novel — though, I dare say she would be far bolder than I.
She would never bow to society’s tedious expectations, nor allow herself to be cajoled into one of those ghastly long engagements that end with a big pompous affair, merely to please hundreds of people she (we) barely knew — or cared for.
No, she would insist on a simple, elegant affair — just family and a few close friends, and perhaps a little luncheon afterwards at Westland House.
You do have a cook, I presume? How funny, I’ve never thought to ask before.
Oh, and flowers — something modest but tasteful.
Pale roses perhaps, to match the colour of my gown — though anything will be heavenly, as long as it’s not carnations.
I’ve never been particularly fond — they always look like they are trying too hard.
And how would you feel about a string quartet? Too much? Mmm, though we did rather enjoy the waltz, did we not?
Anyhow, we can discuss such matters on the morrow when we inform Mama and Papa of our wish for a simple wedding.
A small, intimate affair will be just heavenly — and far more suitable.
And dash it — shall we do it as soon as possible?
Even the day after tomorrow, if such a thing can be arranged.
A Thursday wedding feels terribly daring.
Oh, and watch out for Tuppence, she is the most darling little thing, though she tends to nip one’s boots if she feels she has been slighted.
Yours, rather excitedly, and quite in a flutter,
Your loving Sylvie
She carefully addressed it, then hurried it downstairs to be delivered post-haste.