But she quickly discovered that Mrs. McGibbin belonged to that class of wives who paid no attention whatsoever to the details of their husband’s business. Beyond what she’d already imparted about McGibbin’s interest in the local fishing fleet, she knew no more; she did not even know if her husband belonged to any particular club.
Antonia shifted her sights to Melinda Boyne and was pleased to discover that the younger woman had something of a tendre for Filbury. Consequently, Melinda was a font of information on Filbury’s background, friends, and associates, and, even more importantly, his views—and those of his close friends—on such matters as Irish independence.
On the latter subject, Antonia had to reach deep and project an artlessness bordering on the inane; as the daughter of a very English earl, she had to phrase her questions exceedingly carefully and, as Melinda was by no means witless, pretend to a lack of comprehension that was profound, yet at the same time believable.
The careful interrogation took time and skill and lasted until teatime. During the half hour spent over the cups in the drawing room and the amble about the rose garden with her friends that followed, Antonia learned little else. Instead, she sifted through the numerous hints and facts Melinda had let fall.
By the time the gong to dress for dinner sounded, she was ready to retire and refresh herself, body and mind, before participating in dinner and the musical evening Cecilia had arranged.
She climbed the stairs with Claire and Georgia. Claire headed into the west wing, while Antonia and Georgia walked into the east wing to their rooms.
“See you downstairs.” Georgia waved and went into her room.
Antonia opened her door, walked inside, and saw Sebastian seated on the window seat.
He didn’t rise. Odd. Normally, inculcated manners would have brought him to his feet. Only in private and only with a lady with whom he considered himself very close—such as a lover—would his instincts allow him to remain seated… Had he remained seated on purpose to send her some message? Or had he not even noticed that he hadn’t risen?
One brow arching, she shut the door. A quick glance around informed her that Beccy wasn’t in the room.
“Your maid was here. I sent her off and told her to wait for you to ring.”
High-handed of you. Antonia didn’t bother saying the words; she just threw him a haughty, disapproving look and walked to the dressing table. With a swish of her skirts, she subsided onto the stool. “So what have you learned?”
She reached for the pins that held the bun at the back of her head in place. As she pulled the first free, she met Sebastian’s eyes in the mirror.
Yes, she was teasing him—challenging him—by letting down her hair like this, but…too bad. Her wild side felt like it, and if he could arrogantly presume to send her maid away…
She felt certain that, as in so many endeavors, he assumed that he would be in complete and absolute control of any relationship between them—that it would proceed and develop as he dictated.
That certainty only prodded her into seeing how far she could push him—how far she could provoke him before he realized his assumption wasn’t correct.
A frisson of danger—of anticipation—fizzed through her veins.
She pulled out the next pin.
Sebastian felt he should—somehow—stop her unraveling her hair; the action created a far-too-intimate atmosphere, yet he couldn’t summon the necessary will to override his more primitive side. That part of him, the sensual, sexual being, wanted to see that crowning glory rippling over her shoulders. She’d been wearing her hair up for over a decade; he couldn’t recall exactly what it had looked like when, as a girl, she’d worn it down.
And it would be different now—lusher, thicker, more vibrant.
Surreptitiously, he cleared his throat and ignored his ever-sharpening appetite. “From all I gathered from Worthington and Filbury—both of whom gossip far too readily, useful though that trait is in this instance—I suspect Ennis has, at the very least tacitly and possibly through donations, been a supporter of the Young Irelander cause. However, despite possessing a large and well-established estate over there, he hasn’t been back much in the past decade, and he certainly wasn’t directly involved, any more than Parrish, McGibbin, or the younger men were, in the recent rebellion. Added to that, Cecilia is English to the bone, and according to Wilson—another likely Young Irelander-sympathizer—her influence is definitely anti-Irish.”
“So although Ennis might retain a sympathy for the Irish, it’s sympathy-at-a-distance, and, overall, he’s settled into and is accepted by English society—and by all the evidence, he values that position.” Antonia continued easing pins from her tightly coiled hair and laying them on the dressing table. “I gathered from Mrs. Parrish and Mrs. McGibbin that the Ennises have lived here or at their town house in London consistently since their marriage.”