The Lady By His Side (Cynsters Next Generation Novels Book 4) Page 5

  “Indeed, my lord. I will endeavor.”

  As he stripped off his shirt and reached for the fresh one Wilkins had laid on the bed, Sebastian found his mind wandering, not to the Anglo-Irish, not to what he might, if he put his mind to it, learn from Cecilia Boyne, but to the tantalizing conundrum of the lady in the room four doors up the wing.

  * * *

  Sebastian walked into the drawing room at ten minutes past four o’clock. He was pleased to note that all the other guests were already there, most standing or sitting in groups, holding cups of tea and sipping while they chatted.

  His gaze came to rest on Antonia’s dark head. She was standing before the windows with Miss Wainwright and Miss Boyne. He accepted a cup and saucer from a little maid who popped up beside him and, before anyone could accost him, strolled across the room to Antonia’s side.

  A cool glance as he halted beside her was all the reaction she evinced.

  He sipped and pretended to listen to Miss Boyne’s assertion that there was little by way of society around about while he planned his next move.

  When Miss Bilhurst joined them, distracting Miss Wainwright and Miss Boyne, he leaned closer to Antonia, dipped his head, and whispered, “I need to talk with Ennis’s friends—the Parrishes and McGibbins. Can you…?” With one hand, he gestured.

  She turned her head and met his eyes. “Can I ease your way?”

  He nearly got trapped in the silvery gray of her eyes, but managed to nod.

  She considered him for a second, then reached out and placed her hand on his sleeve.

  This time, he’d anticipated the move and managed to—largely—suppress his instinctive reaction.

  She gripped lightly and nudged, steering him back. Over her shoulder, she told the other three ladies, “We’ll catch up with you later.”

  Facing forward, she settled her hand on his arm. With an imperious look, she summoned a hovering footman to relieve her of her empty cup.

  Sebastian handed over his as well. Before they moved on—they were in the center of the room and out of earshot of the others—he asked, “Has Ennis put in an appearance yet?”

  “No. Apparently, he’s still closeted in his study.”

  He frowned. “I wonder if he’s hiding?”

  “Cecilia assured us he would join us for dinner.” After a moment, Antonia asked, “Why do you want to talk to the Parrishes and McGibbins?”

  “Drake realized there would be Anglo-Irish gentlemen here, but I don’t think he realized that fully half the guests—the majority of the men—would hail from Ireland.”

  Antonia met his gaze. “Ennis is Anglo-Irish, and the Anglo-Irish always stick together.”

  “You know that, I know that, and I’m sure Drake knows that, too, but I don’t think it occurred to him that so many Anglo-Irish would be here.”

  “You mean that some of those here—attending the house party—might be connected with whatever urgent message Ennis wants to convey to Drake?”

  “Exactly. And as Ennis appears to be avoiding his guests…”

  After a second, she asked, “Does Drake have any idea what Ennis’s message is about?”

  “No. He had no clue at all.”

  “So the message might not, in fact, have anything to do with Ireland or the Irish.”

  He grimaced. “Logically, no.”

  “But you think it has.”

  “I think—and Drake thinks—that rumors about fresh plots coming out of Ireland at the same time that Ennis contacts Drake wanting to impart information of a secret and sensitive nature is too difficult to swallow as mere coincidence. Especially given Ennis is an Anglo-Irish peer with an active estate in Ireland, but a preference for living in England, who is married to an English peer’s daughter and has his sons being brought up as Englishmen.”

  Antonia turned to survey the guests; she had to admit Englishmen were in short supply. After a moment, she murmured, “We—you and I—are so obviously English, and upper nobility at that, even if the Anglo-Irish here are discussing such a plot, they’re not going to mention it in our hearing.”

  “No—we’ll have to eavesdrop, and even then, it’s unlikely they’ll let anything fall. But I was thinking more in terms of learning who they are, where they hail from, and so on. I can’t see any reason they won’t tell us that, and if any of them prove to be involved in whatever plot is being hatched, the more information we have, the better.”

  “All right.” She tightened her grip on his arm. “Follow my lead.”

  She guided him to where Mrs. McGibbin and Mr. Parrish were now chatting with Melinda Boyne.

  Antonia and Sebastian were greeted with interest. It wasn’t all that hard to get Mr. Parrish talking about his interests in Ireland—sheep and investments, in that order. When appealed to, Mrs. McGibbin revealed that her husband owned a property in the northwest of the country and augmented his income through underwriting the activities of an increasingly lucrative fishing fleet.

  Between them, by subtle degrees, Antonia and Sebastian steered the conversation to comparisons with the Boynes’ Irish estate near Tulla—as Mrs. McGibbin, Mr. Parrish, and Miss Boyne had all visited and were familiar with the place, that was a subject on which all three had insights to offer.

  Insights, but no startling revelations, yet it was a start.

  Tea having been consumed and the cups and saucers surrendered, with the first gong not due to be rung until six o’clock, the company started to drift apart as, in small groups, the guests elected to stroll in the waning light of the mild autumn afternoon.

  Some made for the terrace, others for the gardens.

  Antonia and Sebastian were joined by Melissa Wainwright and Claire Savage. Together with Miss Boyne and Miss Bilhurst, Antonia’s friends were eager to take the path around the ornamental lake to the small folly on the far shore.

  Sebastian held aloof from their plans; Antonia assumed he was intending to join—and attempt to extract information from—the other unattached gentlemen.

  Then Cecilia Boyne swept up and halted by Sebastian’s side. She listened to Amelie Bilhurst’s eager outline of their plan and smiled encouragingly. “It is a lovely walk at this time of evening, ladies—I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.” With that, Cecilia looked at Sebastian, then boldly slid her arm through his. “But I’m sure Lord Earith would prefer to stroll the terrace.” To Sebastian, she said, “Perhaps I might show you my new conservatory, my lord.”

  Antonia didn’t think, didn’t blink. With an accomplished smile—one she’d learned at her mother’s knee and perfected by observation—she leaned forward and, around Sebastian, addressed their hostess. “Oh, but Earith has already agreed to accompany us—and all the other gentlemen have gone off to play billiards, I believe.” She turned her smile on Sebastian and allowed the gesture to take on a quite different—more lover-like—warmth. “I know how you feel about me wandering unprotected.”

  Sebastian seized her lifeline like a drowning man. He turned to Cecilia. “Sadly, Cecilia, as you can see, I’m already committed.”

  Cecilia shot Antonia a look that was more puzzled than anything else. She eased her arm from Sebastian’s, then patted his sleeve. “Later, then.” Putting on her hostessly face, she smiled at the other ladies. “Enjoy yourselves, my dears.”

  Cecilia turned and headed toward Mrs. Parrish and Mrs. McGibbin.

  Resuming their artless chatter, Miss Boyne and Miss Bilhurst led the way through the open French doors and onto the terrace. Melissa and Claire followed. Sebastian drew in a breath and offered Antonia his arm. She laid her hand on his sleeve, and they fell in at the rear of the small procession.

  Once they were pacing down the lawn toward the lake, he murmured, “Thank you. Clearly, avoiding Cecilia while pursuing her husband is going to be a trifle more complicated than Drake thought.”

  Antonia made a noncommittal sound.

  They walked on in silence, for which she was grateful. She was still coming to terms with the implications
of what she’d just done. Sebastian, clearly, assumed her action had been prompted by an urge to help him with the mission.

  She knew otherwise.

  Cecilia’s proprietary assumption had sparked a reaction in Antonia unlike anything she’d ever felt before. Sheer possessiveness had erupted and gripped her. She’d seen her mother react in just such a way toward ladies who presumed to approach her father, thinking to lure him into an affair. Her father found such clashes amusing; he was prone to stand back and watch with an indulgent smile on his lips.

  He understood what lay behind her mother’s steely rebuffs.

  Sebastian didn’t possess such insight, an insight born of experience—thank God.

  Her head high, her gaze fixed forward, Antonia paced alongside him, her hand resting lightly on his sleeve—gripping only a little; that was all she would allow herself.

  Beneath her outwardly composed exterior, she was metaphorically taking in great gulps of air and trying to calm the whirlpool of swirling emotions inside her.

  She’d wondered what Sebastian meant to her—how the passionate, fiery woman who lived inside her truly saw him.

  Now, she knew.

  That woman who was her true self saw Lord Sebastian Cynster, Marquess of Earith, as, quite simply, hers.

  Chapter 3

  Sebastian walked into the drawing room just after the clocks had chimed seven o’clock. The first man he saw, standing before the fireplace and chatting with McGibbin and Parrish, was Lord Ennis.

  About forty years old, Ennis was shorter and stockier than Sebastian, and his black hair, gleaming under the gaslight, clustered in thick curls about his pale face.

  Unhurriedly, Sebastian crossed the room to the group before the hearth, transparently intent on exchanging greetings with his host, as any guest would. McGibbin and Parrish welcomed him with smiles, but Ennis had stiffened fractionally when he saw Sebastian approaching, and his expression had grown distant and a touch chilly.

  His own expression easy and relaxed, after nodding to the other two, Sebastian politely inclined his head to Ennis and offered his hand. “My lord. It’s a pleasure to have the opportunity of visiting Pressingstoke Hall.”

  Ennis briefly gripped his hand. “Earith. Lady Ennis mentioned that you would be here. I hope you find your stay entertaining.”

  The words were stiff and stilted, contrasting sharply with Sebastian’s assured drawl. It was clear Ennis wanted nothing to do with Sebastian, but he’d expected that. And with McGibbin and Parrish hovering, now was not the time to mention a private meeting.

  “Actually”—turning, Sebastian scanned the guests—“given I’m here as a favor to the Chillingworths, I expect my appreciation of my stay will largely depend on Lady Antonia.”

  “Indeed.” Ennis’s rejoinder was clipped.

  Sebastian barely registered it. He’d located Antonia’s glossy dark head and discovered that she—and Miss Wainwright and Miss Savage—were surrounded by Connell Boyne, Filbury, Wilson, and Worthington. The four gentlemen were patently putting themselves out to please, although none of the ladies as yet seemed won over.

  Worthington laughed and edged closer to Antonia, leaning near as if to whisper something in her ear.

  Antonia shifted, easing back.

  The impulse to march across and insert himself between Antonia and Worthington was powerful enough to make Sebastian sway…

  He wasn’t going to accomplish anything with Ennis at the moment.

  And if he wanted to keep up the façade of being Antonia’s escort…

  Adopting a world-weary air, Sebastian turned to Ennis, McGibbin, and Parrish. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I believe my role of escort demands my presence elsewhere.”

  McGibbin and Parrish were amused. Ennis was relieved.

  They parted with nods. His gaze fixing on the group gathered before the long windows overlooking the terrace, Sebastian strolled nonchalantly past the other guests to fetch up beside Antonia.

  She saw him coming and readily shifted to make way for him—he sensed with some relief. Worthington looked somewhat taken aback to find Sebastian suddenly beside him, but soldiered gamely on with the story he was telling.

  In less than a minute, Sebastian realized that the only threat Worthington posed was that of boring his listeners to madness. But his three friends—Filbury, Wilson, and Connell Boyne—were of quite a different stripe. All three struck Sebastian as minor jackals, gentlemen-scavengers on the lookout for a fortune to make their own. They didn’t rank among the more dangerous of the breed, but all three had enough nous to realize that, of the unmarried ladies at Pressingstoke Hall, Antonia was the juiciest plum.

  While Worthington rattled on, apparently oblivious to the implications of Sebastian’s sudden appearance, the other three eyed him assessingly.

  Sebastian stood beside Antonia and, one by one, met Filbury’s, then Wilson’s, then Boyne’s eyes; he didn’t actually do anything, just let his threat infuse his gaze, his stance, the very air between them.

  All three got his message, loud and clear. They dropped their gazes, and a certain tension—the intentness of hunters assessing prey—that had tightened the atmosphere evaporated.

  Antonia exchanged resigned looks with Melissa and Claire; on her part, those looks were also placating. She’d insisted to her friends that Sebastian was merely a family friend sent to fill the role of escort, that he was nothing more to her, and she was nothing more to him. That was what she’d believed at the time. But she and her friends were more than experienced enough to recognize precisely what he had just done, and such heavy-handed intervention didn’t fit the script he was supposed to be following.

  But her friends’ confusion was the least of the problems plaguing her.

  The manner in which Sebastian had done what he’d done had set warning bells ringing in her brain.

  He’d acted with arrogant, invincible authority, with an air of absolute, inalienable right.

  She knew him, knew men like him—she knew the difference between an escort stepping in to protect his charge and…the aura Sebastian had projected, which had been several orders of magnitude more extreme.

  There was no way any of the three other gentlemen would approach her now, other than in the most innocent of contexts. Not that she wanted them to approach her in any non-innocent circumstances, but still…

  In just a few short minutes, without uttering a single word, Sebastian had declared that she was his.

  His—in some way, in whatever way he meant.

  He’d behaved as if he owned her, as if she—her time, her consideration—were his by right.

  Given her own eye-opening revelation of mere hours before, a revelation from which she was still mentally reeling, him behaving in such a possessive way was only compounding her difficulties.

  Apparently satisfied with the result he’d achieved, his expression once more politely mild, he glanced down at her. She caught his eye, narrowed hers fractionally, and with a deceptively sweet smile curving her lips, looped her arm in his and murmured, “Walk with me.” She directed her smile around the circle. “If you’ll excuse us?”

  It wasn’t a question. Melissa and Claire inclined their heads with clear relief; they didn’t want Sebastian destroying all their fun.

  The other gentlemen brightened and replied, “Of course” and “Until later.”

  Maintaining an expression of unimpaired calm, Antonia steered Sebastian toward an unoccupied corner of the room. He didn’t resist; from the look in his eyes, he assumed she had something to impart regarding the mission.

  Doing her best not to grit her teeth—could his obliviousness over what he’d just done be any more obvious?—she halted and seized the moment of him turning to face her and her drawing her arm from his to jab a finger into his side. That got his undivided attention. She glared into his eyes. “Behave.”

  His pale green eyes searched hers even as his brows lowered and bafflement overwhelmed his arrogance. “What?
”

  He truly had no idea. She resisted the urge to wave her arms. “You can’t just go around”—she gave in and waved one hand—“intimidating people.”

  His features set—in intimidating lines. “Why not?”

  “Because we’re here—supposedly—to enjoy ourselves as a group.”

  “But they were—”

  “Behaving exactly as anyone would expect.” She couldn’t put her hands on her hips. “You appear to have forgotten that I—and Melissa and Claire—are twenty-nine. We knew perfectly well what those three—indeed, even Mr. Worthington, teddy bear though he is—were thinking. For all their belief in their own sophistication, they are boringly predictable and nothing we haven’t dealt with before—but they can be entertaining. If you’re imagining we’re three innocent misses who require a nursemaid, you are a long way off the mark.”

  “I’m hardly a nursemaid.” He stared frowningly down at her for several seconds; she glared belligerently back. Eventually, he grated, “So what am I supposed to do? Just let those jackals sniff about your skirts?”

  “Unless I signal otherwise, yes!”

  Sebastian’s jaw clenched even more tightly. He wasn’t sure he could do as she asked. Just the thought set his hackles rising. But her eyes were flashing more silver than gray, and she appeared very set on him backing off.

  He consulted his inner self and inwardly acknowledged that him backing off wasn’t going to happen. But he had to say something to appease her. He forced himself to nod—an exceedingly small nod. “Very well. We’ll see how matters progress.”

  She wasn’t convinced she’d got what she wanted. She searched his face, then she appeared to accept she’d done enough for the moment; the passion left her eyes to be replaced with her usual cool hauteur. She shifted to his side and turned to view the gathering. “Have you spoken with Ennis yet?”

  “Only to greet him. He’s surrounded by others, and this is hardly an appropriate venue.” He studied their host, still standing before the fireplace. “I’ll need to watch and seize a moment to make it clear that I’m Drake’s surrogate. Then he and I will need to meet privately, and I assume he’ll want to keep that meeting secret.”