Chapter Forty-four
“Sylvie, my dear, do we find you well rested?” purred Louis as she entered the breakfast room less than an hour later. “It is awfully early for a lady to be up and about.”
“Would you prefer I took my tea elsewhere?”
“Goodness, no.” He rose slightly, gesturing to the chair beside him. “Come sit by me. We are friends, are we not?”
“I… I thought I might find my husband here.”
“Alas no. I fear his mood at having to endure my company over a leisurely breakfast would curdle the milk. He has run away to brood elsewhere.”
Sylvie blinked, and to her mortification, her eyes filled with tears.
“Oh, there, there, my dear, I only jest,” said Louis more gently. “A footman saw him leave to take a walk, is all. He often used to stomp up and down the beach as a boy when the world displeased him.”
“He… he… he is to banish me,” she blurted to her horror, though so emotional, she could not stop the words spilling from her lips. “He, he is to abandon me… in WALES!”
Louis, rarely taken by surprise, actually stared.
“He says we are to depart from here this… this very morning,” she added miserably.
Taking a deliberate sip of his coffee, he tapped the fingers of his silver hand lightly upon the table, considering. “Tsk. Certainly not how I had envisaged this particular game playing out.”
“I, I’m so sorry,” she sniffled, trying to dash her tears away with the back of her hand, “I’m not usually prone to histrionics… or tears.”
“Worry not, my dear. With Madeline as a mother, I am quite adept to the dramatics.” His smile softened as he drew a fine handkerchief from his pocket.
“And tears, after all, can easily be wiped away. Here… I always carry a spare for such occasions, as apparently, I am quite skilled at encouraging them.”
“Oh, no, Louis, it is not you… it is I. I fear I made a grave mistake in coming here, and am so sorry for involving you in my troubles,” she sniffled as she dabbed at her face.
“On the contrary,” he murmured, folding his hands. “You have what you came for, have you not?”
“Well… yes, but…”
“And in doing so, you knew it might anger your husband?”
“I did,” she admitted softly, “although I had hoped he would come to understand.”
“Ah.” His tone sharpened ever so slightly. “Then a word of advice, my dear. If one is prepared to play the game, then one must also be willing to face the consequences.”
Surprised at his bluntness and feeling a little foolish, Sylvie sat quietly for a moment before she sighed in defeat. “You are right, of course.”
He regarded her steadily for a moment. “Of course, I am,” he said lightly. Folding his napkin, he carefully placed it next to his cup. “And information, my dear, can be one’s greatest ally.”
Sylvie looked up abruptly and blinked.
He smiled, the wolfish glint back in his eye as he purred, “If one is prepared to use it wisely.”
“Oh,” she spluttered, “you mean… I should go? You think I ought to? To… go and see Mrs Sheers?”
“Tsk, tsk,” he cut across, wagging his finger slowly in reprimand. “I offer no counsel, merely facts. What you choose to do with them, my dear, is for you, and you alone to decide.”
He rose, looking down at her. His violet eyes held hers as if searching her soul, her heart beating several times before he finally inclined his head with courtly grace. “A pleasure, Lady Westland.”
As he moved toward the door, his voice floated back, smooth and dangerous.
“You know,” he purred without turning, “I have always found there are only two kinds of players. Those who are willing to fall at the first hurdle, and those who have the tenacity to see it through to its conclusion… to discover how the final cards may fall.”
With that, he left her — alone with her thoughts, her tea, and the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the air like temptation itself.
* * *
Angus had been gone nearly two hours by the time he stalked back into Hayford Abbey.
His self-loathing had dulled to a simmer, though the burden of what he must still do pressed like a lead weight against his chest. Hesitating at the door to the bedchamber, he drew a steadying breath, and knocked before entering.
Turning as he came in, Sylvie kept her gaze lowered. “My lord,” she said coolly.
“I, umm… I see you are ready to leave.”
“Yes,” she replied firmly. “I’m going to see Mrs Sheers. It is but a day’s ride from here, and before you say anything, if the result of my visit changes nothing, then I will proceed directly to my exile. In Wales.”
“Sylvie, I…” he attempted, taking a step closer.
Her hand shot out to stop him. “I know you do not love me as I love you, my lord. That I accept. I could also accept being in an amiable marriage without romance, if there were friendship and kindness between us. But what I cannot accept,” her voice wavered, “is a lonely, hollow life without you, when there is even a glimmer of hope that I can prevent it.”
Though her words were determined, her hand trembled and her eyes gleamed with unshed tears. His rehearsed speech evaporated.
“Sylvie, it is as it was always meant to be… what we agreed. We will work out a schedule for you to visit London, to see your family and friends when I am away, and…”
“And?”
“I… I… never wanted to hurt you.”
She stared back at him, the sadness in her eyes nearly toppling him. “No, my lord,” she said quietly, “but you are.”
Her words cut him more deeply than a finely honed blade, and he stood bleeding with regrets, fumbling for the right words that would not come. “I do care for you, Sylvie,” he managed at last, “but I cannot risk… ”
“I know,” she said sadly. “And somehow that makes it hurt all the more. You are a good man, Angus… kind, honourable… and it breaks my heart that you cannot see those qualities in yourself, only a darkness that does not exist.”
“Sylvie, my father…he had a sickness, and I have to believe he didn’t know what he was doing when… when my mother died. But, I do know what is to become of me, and I will do everything in my power to prevent another… another tragedy, however upsetting or unfair it may seem to you now.”
“But, Angus, you would never physically hurt me. I know you wouldn’t.”
He smiled bitterly. “No, not now. But the man I am to become…”
“But what if you believe to be true, is not? Do you not owe it to yourself… and to your father… to find out what really happened?”
“I owe my father nothing,” he said sharply. Then, catching himself, he exhaled. “But,” he continued more gently, “for you, I will come to speak to this Mrs Sheers, as I hope it will help you understand why we must live apart. Why we can never be as you wish.”
Sylvie’s eyes widened in astonishment, then flung herself into his arms. “Oh, thank you, Angus. I love you so much… you’ll see, you won’t regret it.”
“I already do, Sylvie,” he murmured. “For it has given you hope where there is none. I’m afraid we will find nothing to refute what I already know.”
She released her grip slightly and looked up at him. “Yes, but Louis…”
“Louis cannot be trusted,” he cut in. “He plays games with people’s lives as other men play cards, merely to amuse himself. You must understand… I am coming only for your sake. Whatever you may think, your welfare… your happiness… are of concern to me.”
“Then concern yourself no more, for I couldn’t be happier.”
Yet concern was all he felt. Deep in his heart, he knew they were heading for more heartache and disappointment. For a heartbeat, he allowed himself to imagine another life — one untouched by dark shadows or inherited sin. Then, furious at his own weakness, he dashed such a thought angrily away.
* * *
“Take care, my dear, and if you should ever have need of me, send word to Hayford House in Grosvenor Square.”
“Oh, Madeline, I don’t know how I shall ever thank you,” said Sylvie, embracing the Dowager Countess in a warm, impulsive hug. “I feel we have known each other all our lives.”
“Of course, you do, my dear,” Madeline replied with a soft laugh. “We are birds of a feather.”
Sylvie drew back in surprise. “Birds of a feather?”
“Romantic. Determined. Steadfast,” the older woman said, her eyes shining with mischief. “And… dare I say, just a little unconventional. Though, I admit, you manage it with far more grace than I ever did at your age.”
“You really think so?”
“I do,” Madeline said firmly. “Your love for Angus has unbound you from the shackles society so dearly loves to keep us in. You think for yourself, my dear, and will make the finest of Marchionesses, of that, I am quite certain. Isabelle, Angus’s mother, would have adored you.”
Sylvie blinked. “You… you knew her?”
“I did indeed. We were the best of friends from childhood, and when she died, I wanted Angus to come and live with us, but his aunt… Augusta McDonald… refused. She is a vicious, vindictive creature, my dear. Be wary should your paths ever cross.”
“Yes,” murmured Sylvie, “I shall.”
“Now, be off with you. You have a dragon to slay and a handsome husband to rescue.”
Sylvie laughed. “I was hoping to say goodbye to Louis. Will you thank him for me?”
“He left just after breakfast, and you can thank him yourself… when you next meet.”
“Will there be a next time?” Sylvie asked softly.
“Oh, I daresay there will,” said Madeline, her smile knowing. “Louis has a habit of reappearing when one least expects him.” She reached out and straightened the collar of Sylvie’s cloak, her expression turning tender. “Go now, my dear… and good luck.”