Chapter 15
THE DANCING HAD BEEN A GOOD IDEA, THE DUKE of Ridgeway thought.
Most of the guests appeared to be enjoying themselves, and it was certainly preferable to another evening of charades.
The music was lively. Miss Dobbin was competent and Fleur Hamilton good.
And the latter had not seemed to resent at all being asked to play.
It would have been a good evening if everyone had stayed in the drawing room to enjoy the dancing and one another’s company. But as always seemed to happen during balls and dances, however informal, couples inevitably disappeared.
He would not worry his head over Mayberry’s having withdrawn with Mrs. Grantsham, though it angered him that people could behave with such impropriety in other people’s homes and under the knowing eyes of other people’s servants.
But he would worry about Sybil and Thomas, and about Fleur and Brocklehurst too.
Sybil and Thomas had been gone for half an hour. And he was torn between the desire to stay in the drawing room to talk and smile with his guests and dance with the ladies and his need to pursue them and bring them back before gossip settled irrevocably about them.
But perhaps that had already happened. They were certainly making no great secret of their preference for each other. And was that his chief concern—gossip? Was he willing to watch all the signs of the resumption of an affair between his wife and his brother provided they were discreet?
And then Fleur Hamilton left the room with Brocklehurst, and his mental battle was intensified.
He had promised her that she was safe on his property and under his protection.
But was she being harassed? She had been smiling when she left the room, and there had been no evidence that she was being coerced.
Perhaps she was glorying in the chance of mingling with the company, dancing with one of them, being singled out for even more marked attention.
But there had been her terror the first evening she had set eyes on Brocklehurst. There was the fact that both of them claimed only a slight acquaintance, and yet he had called her Isabella. There was the fact that he was the owner of Heron House and she had lived at a place called “Her—.”
He watched the gentlemen take their partners for a quadrille, made sure that no lady who appeared eager to dance was without a partner, and slipped from the room.
There was no one in the great hall. The footmen had been withdrawn for the night.
And yet he heard voices as he entered it.
From behind one of the pillars? From the arches leading to the staircases?
He strolled about quietly, but there was no one to be seen.
And the voices had ceased. Perhaps he had imagined them.
The doors into the salon and the long gallery were closed.
But of course, he thought at last, standing in the middle of the hall and resisting the urge to look up.
The old hiding place, which he and Thomas had used countless times as boys, lying flat to observe new arrivals, snickering over the conversations of the footmen when they had thought themselves alone, making owl noises in an attempt to frighten the same footmen.
It would be Thomas and Sybil. Should he look up? Call to them? Climb the stairs to confront them? Give them time to come down of their own accord and return to the dancing?
The confrontation would have to be made. But he would prefer to postpone it to a time when he did not have to return to entertain the guests immediately after.
And what of Fleur Hamilton and Brocklehurst? They had been in the long gallery the last time they had been together—that night with its ghastly aftermath. He crossed the hall to the gallery, opened the door, and stepped inside.
One set of candles halfway along the long gallery was lit. The room was almost in darkness, heavy shadows spreading outward from the central source of light.
They were at the far end, in close embrace.
They had not heard him come in. And he had to make the instant decision of whether to leave as quietly as he had come or make his presence known.
She was not struggling. Perhaps she would resent his intrusion on a romantic moment. Or perhaps she needed him.
He walked slowly along the gallery, making no attempt to hide in the shadows or dull the sound of his footsteps. And when he was a little more than halfway along, they broke apart and turned to look at him.
Sybil and Thomas.
The duchess turned sharply away to stare out of a window into darkness. Lord Thomas met his brother’s eyes in the near-darkness and smiled.
“I was seized with the urge to renew my acquaintance with our ancestors,” he said. “But alas, this is not quite the time of day to come picture-gazing. I shall have to do it again in the daylight.”
“Yes,” the duke said. “I will be wanting a word with you in the morning, too, Thomas. But not now. Now there are ladies in the drawing room who would appreciate your offer to partner them in a dance. Sybil and I will see you there shortly.”
Lord Thomas turned to look at the back of the duchess’s head. “Do you wish to return with me, Sybil?” he asked. “Or with Adam?”
“She will return with me,” his grace said quietly.
The duchess said nothing.
Lord Thomas shrugged. “Oh, well,” he said, “I know that when you drop your voice that low, Adam, fisticuffs are not far in the future if I argue. And we must not present bloody noses to your guests, must we?” He touched the duchess on one shoulder. “You will be all right, Sybil?”
Again she said nothing. He shrugged once more and made his way alone along the gallery.
The duke waited a long time, until he heard the door close finally as his brother left.
“Well, Sybil,” he said quietly.
She turned to him. The faint light from the candles was gleaming off her blond hair. Her face was shadowed. “Well, Adam,” she said, her sweet voice shaking a little. “What are you going to do about it?”
“What do you want me to do about it?” he asked. “How far has it gone? I suppose you love him again—but then, you never stopped, did you? Are you lovers?”
She laughed shortly. “Would you divorce me if I said yes?” she asked. “Would you, Adam? It would make a wonderful scandal, wouldn’t it?” Her voice was shaking almost out of control.
“No,” he said. “I would never divorce you, Sybil. I think you know that. But you made me certain promises when we married. You owe it to both of us and to Pamela and all those dependent on us to keep those promises, I believe. Thomas is irrevocably in your past. You made it irrevocable when you married me.”
“What choice did I have?” she cried passionately. “What choice did I have? I would have been ruined forever, and you had sent him away never to return. And you kept coming and urging me to accept your protection before Papa discovered the truth. I had no choice at all. You are an evil man, Adam.”
“Perhaps,” he said. “But you have not been exactly the ideal mate either, Sybil. We must just make the best of what we have done with our lives.”
“Do you blame me,” she said, looking at him with deep revulsion, “for not wanting you to touch me? They would have been kinder to you, those people, if they had left you to die. You are only half a man.”
“We had better return to our guests,” he said.
“And you talk about my keeping my promises,” she said, her voice petulant as it frequently was during their arguments. “Can you honestly tell me that you have kept yours, Adam? Can you tell me that you have never been unfaithful to me?”
He looked at her without answering.
“Do you think,” she said, “that I do not know the reason for your frequent journeys to London? Do you think I do not know why you suddenly decided this time that Pamela needed a governess? Don’t talk to me of marriage vows.
If I have given in to my love for Thomas, it is because I have been driven to it by your debaucheries and your cruelty.
” She felt about her for a handkerchief and finally took the one he held out to her.
“Now, that,” he said, “is a good deal of nonsense, as you are very well aware. Dry your eyes, Sybil, and blow your nose. We have been away from our guests for long enough.”
She turned in silence and began to walk along the gallery.
When they reached the doors, he opened them, took the handkerchief from her hand, and drew her arm through his.
Distasteful and hypocritical as it might seem, he thought, looking down at her beautiful face, the blue eyes lowered, and at her silver-blond hair, there were appearances to consider.
And she, of course, realized it too. She sparkled again as soon as they stepped inside the drawing room. Almost everyone was dancing. Fleur Hamilton was playing the pianoforte.
FLEUR WAS THE LAST to leave the drawing room. The dancers had all drifted away to bed, and a few servants had come in to roll out the carpet and set the room to rights again. She sorted through the music and decided to return it to the music room before going to bed herself.
It was very late. She felt tired. But she did not want to go to bed. She preferred her thoughts when she was somewhat in control of them. She did not want the nightmares that so frequently disturbed her sleep.
She set the branch of candles she had brought with her on top of the pianoforte in the music room and put the music away neatly. And she reached out a hand for the candles again.
But the pianoforte, so much larger and more mellow in tone than the one in the drawing room, drew her like a magnet. She ran her fingers lightly over the keys, not depressing them. And she played a scale, slowly and softly. She seated herself on the stool.
She played Bach, a crisp, fast sonata, her eyes closed. She played rather loudly. Perhaps if she concentrated hard enough, played briskly enough, she could drown out her thoughts.
Perhaps she could drown out Matthew.