The Secret Pearl(35)

“Yes.” Lord Brocklehurst coughed delicately. “A nasty business, Kent. You have my sympathy.”

Lord Thomas shrugged. “I am not sure the sedentary life would have suited me after all,” he said. “Or the married life. Too confining by half. Are the ladies as lovely as they used to be, Bradshaw? And as willing? I must say I am starved for an English beauty or two—or twenty.”

“And just as expensive as they ever were,” Lord Brocklehurst said, “if not more so. You are going home?”

“To Willoughby?” The other laughed aloud. “I think that would be the unwisest move of my life, considering some of the things that were said when I left. It can’t be a comfortable thing to have someone who once wore your title breathing down your neck, I suppose—and someone who was once betrothed to your wife. Though it might be worth everything just to see the look on Ridgeway’s face.”

“Old wounds heal fast,” Lord Brocklehurst said, “especially within families. He would probably be delighted to see you.”

“The prodigal’s return and the fatted calf?” Lord Thomas said. “I think not. I’m deuced hungry and hate eating at hotels. Is White’s still standing where it used to stand?”

“I’ll be delighted to buy you luncheon there,” Lord Brocklehurst said.

“Will you?” Lord Thomas laughed again. “The Heron property is good to you, Bradshaw? I can remember the time when neither one of us had a feather to fly with. Luncheon it is, then, and perhaps tonight we can go in search of wine, women, and cards together, though I might be persuaded to dispense with the cards. Let my man pour you a drink while I dress.”

Lord Brocklehurst sipped on his drink a few minutes later and stared thoughtfully at the door through which Lord Thomas had disappeared.




SIXTEEN GUESTS ARRIVED TO STAY at Willoughby Hall, all on the same day. The Duke of Ridgeway stood beside his wife in the great hall to receive them and circulated among them during tea in the saloon late in the afternoon.

They were not quite the crowd he would have chosen to consort with, given the choice, he reflected, but Sybil was happy and looking quite glowingly lovely, and he supposed she was entitled to some happiness. Indeed, he was glad to see her enjoying herself. It seemed to have been beyond his power to give her any enjoyment since their marriage.

And he was getting mortally tired of sharing a dining table with her, one at the head, the other at the foot, making labored conversation across its empty length.

“Good hunting do you have here, Ridgeway?” Sir Ambrose Marvell asked him as they sipped on their tea.

“My gamekeeper tells me that the deer are increasing at an interesting rate,” he replied.

“And the fishing?” Mr. Morley Treadwell asked.

It was easy to see already whom Sybil had invited as her cher ami—there would have to be someone, of course, as there always was on such occasions. Sir Philip Shaw, he had heard, scarcely needed to keep a home of his own, spending all his time moving about among the homes of his numerous flirts and mistresses. And the current joke had it that one need not assign a guest bedchamber to Shaw—he would cheerfully share with one of the ladies, usually his hostess.

His indolent, almost effeminate manner and graceful person and permanently sleepy eyes were apparently irresistible to the ladies. And Sybil was already sparkling up at him, one slim white hand on his arm. Where the devil had she met him? But of course she sometimes took herself off on visits without him—she never asked, and he never resented not being asked. Most recently she had spent two weeks at her sister’s, apparently in company with other select guests.

The duke sighed inwardly. He hoped he was not going to have to go through that ridiculous farce again of playing the icy husband guarding his conjugal rights. It was so very tedious—and not a little humiliating. And of course it forever enhanced her image of him as humorless tyrant. Perhaps he was just that. He was coming almost to believe it himself.

When could he decently escape? he wondered. And where could he escape to? The lessons abovestairs were doubtless finished for the day. He was glad at least that Miss Hamilton had done her practicing early that morning, when he had been able to listen to her at his leisure. He had opened the door between the library and the music room and sat at his desk and listened. But he had made sure that she saw him. He did not wish to give the impression that he was spying on her.

She really did have talent. Music that he had only ever been able to produce with competence she brought alive and warm and flowing. The hour he had spent listening to her had soothed him far more than the ride he had planned.