The Lady By His Side(5)

Withers opened the door at the end of the corridor and bowed Sebastian through. He walked in. The parlor overlooked the garden, possessed an abundance of white-framed windows, and was furnished with white wickerwork armchairs and sofa upholstered in slub silk. The silk sported a feathery pattern in white, greens, and blues, creating a light, airy atmosphere that was the perfect setting for the two very different but equally vibrant ladies who looked up as he entered. One pair of emerald-green eyes and another of cool gray regarded him with interest and expectation.

Chillingworth’s countess, Francesca, was perched on the window seat, while Antonia was sitting in an armchair a little way from and angled to the window.

Antonia was tall for a female; she’d inherited her height from her father’s side and, like her late paternal grandmother, was slender, willowy, and effortlessly elegant. Her figure was svelte, lacking Francesca’s abundant curvaceousness, but Antonia’s coloring was a more obvious blending of her father’s and mother’s—from Francesca came the lush, gleaming blackness of her long hair, presently up in a fashionable loose bun, while she’d inherited the fine skin and pale complexion of the females of her father’s family. Her exquisitely shaped ruby lips, finely arched black brows, and the long black lashes that framed her large eyes were all Francesca, but those eyes were Chillingworth’s silvery gray. The combination was unexpected and, if come upon unawares, could be riveting.

In contrast, Francesca was quite short, a pocket Venus in every way. Despite her matronly status, the countess retained an abundance of energy along with her bounteous charms.

Sebastian was pleased that none of Antonia’s siblings were present, especially her nosy little sister, Helen.

“Sebastian.” Francesca had been reading a letter. She set it aside and held out her hand as, with an easy smile curving his lips, he strolled forward.

He took her hand and bowed over her fingers. “Lady Francesca.”

Francesca made a rude sound at the formality and flicked her hand, directing him to Antonia.

Her elegant daughter had been embroidering. She laid the frame in her lap and, her fine eyes quizzing him, gave him her hand. “Sebastian.”

He grasped her fingers and half bowed. “Antonia.”

As he straightened, she arched her brows. “No ‘Lady’?”

Those cool gray eyes were laughing at him. He missed only one heartbeat before replying, “You don’t need the title.”

She smiled, a laughing, radiant smile that lit her face.

Arrested, he stared.

Beside them, Francesca chortled. “An excellent riposte. Who says you young ones know nothing of repartee?”

Antonia glanced at her mother, releasing Sebastian and recalling him to his purpose. He freed her fingers.

Francesca waved him to the chair facing Antonia’s across the window seat. “Do sit down, Sebastian—like Gyles and your father, you are far too tall to stand and converse.” As soon as he’d subsided into the armchair, Francesca brightly asked, “So what can we do for you? I take it you wish us to assist you with something?”

The countess had spent her formative years in Italy; she had never seen the sense in British reserve, claiming it only wasted time.

Sebastian recalled that now. He glanced at Antonia and saw her lips quirking and her eyes dancing in understanding and empathy. He cleared his throat and returned his gaze to Francesca, who was plainly waiting with mounting impatience. “I’ve been asked by Winchelsea to assist in a mission that may prove critical to the safety of the realm. However, to successfully conduct the mission, I need your”—Sebastian swung his gaze to Antonia—“or more specifically Antonia’s, help.”

Antonia widened her eyes at him. “That sounds serious.”

“It is.” He had Ennis’s letter to Drake and a copy of Drake’s reply, both of which Drake had sent around that morning, in his pocket to prove that, if need be. He glanced at Francesca, realized she was frowning, and hurriedly added, “There’ll be no danger involved. I merely have to act in Drake’s stead and speak with someone. Drake is otherwise engaged, but he needs to learn what this person has to tell him.”

Francesca looked unconvinced. “Who is this person?”

“Lord Ennis.” Sebastian glanced at Antonia.

She blinked, then stared at him. “You want to go to the Ennises’ house party?”

He nodded. “But I need a believable reason for attending. Drake suggested that, given our families’ long association and”—he looked at Francesca—“that you’re not planning to attend, ma’am, then it wouldn’t raise eyebrows were we to pretend that I was accompanying Antonia”—he returned his gaze to her—“as her escort.”