A Lady Never Tells Page 6

  “What?” His voice was as cold and brittle as ice, as stinging in its force. “Is this some sort of jest? Or was all this an elaborate ruse, designed to pull me into your little scheme?”

  Chapter 4

  Mary and her sisters gaped at Sir Royce in astonishment. He had changed in an instant into the very picture of a haughty aristocrat. Even his calm was different—now the silent intensity of a predator.

  “Well?” he snapped when they said nothing. “Answer me! Was that arranged last night—did you plan it to draw me into your swindle? Am I intended to be your means to get to the earl?”

  Anger flooded Mary, releasing her from stunned inaction, and she jumped to her feet. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about! But I can assure you that I have no swindle in mind. Do you think I arranged for a thief to steal our papers just so we could meet you? I must say, you have an awfully grand idea of your importance. I didn’t know you last night; I still don’t, beyond what you yourself have told me. And I have even less notion of what you have to do with the earl!”

  “You think we’re imposters!” Lily exclaimed, looking less indignant than intrigued at the idea. “That we are like the wicked Cynthia Montrose, taking the place of the Lady Anna while her horrid brother keeps Anna locked up in the dungeon!” She turned to her sisters, explaining, “They wanted the old lord’s money, you see, and they thought to trick him out of it by pretending Cynthia was his daughter, only—”

  “Yes, I understand what Sir Royce thinks of us.” Mary’s eyes flashed. “He believes we are scheming adventuresses. He must also think we are rather spectacular in our abilities. Not only did we arrange for someone to steal our case and dash past him with it, we also knew that he would be stepping out of that door at exactly that moment. I’d like to know how he thinks we managed that! Perhaps he’d also like to tell us why we should set up this elaborate farce for him when it is the Earl of Stewkesbury whom we want to reach.”

  Royce gazed at her for another long, considering moment, but Mary could see him subtly relax. “Do you honestly not know who I am?”

  Mary frowned. “You are Sir Royce Winslow. At least, that is what you told us. But perhaps I have been too trusting. It seems to me that someone who is as suspicious as you must engage in a bit of double-dealing himself, else how is he so familiar with swindles and frauds?”

  He let out a short laugh that was signally lacking in humor. “I have had quite a bit of experience with those wishing to get closer to the earl. You see, the earl’s father married my mother thirty-one years ago. We grew up in the same house.”

  Once again, Mary stared at him in confusion. “But no, the earl—we cannot be talking about the same man. Is there another Earl of Stewkesbury? He was my mother’s father; he must be an old man.”

  Again he regarded her for a time. “What was his first name? Do you know?”

  “Reginald. That is what my mother wrote on the envelope—Reginald, Lord Stewkesbury.”

  “That is the old earl. The present earl’s grandfather. I am sorry to tell you that Lord Reginald died more than a year ago. Reginald’s son, Lawrence, had predeceased him, so Lawrence’s son Oliver became the earl.”

  “Then he would be …” Rose stopped to work out the relationship. “Lawrence must have been our mother’s brother. And that would make the present earl … our cousin?”

  “But that is wonderful!” Lily blurted out. “Then you are our cousin, too!”

  A flicker of dismay ran through Mary at her sister’s words. This man, whose kiss had sent fire sizzling through her, was her cousin?

  “No!” Royce’s eyes slid to Mary for an instant before going back to Lily. “No, we are not related at all. You see, I am not a Talbot.” At their confused looks, he explained, “Talbot is the earl’s family name. My father was Sir Alan Winslow. He died when I was young, and my mother, Barbara, later married Lawrence, Oliver’s father. Oliver’s mother had died when he was but three, leaving Lawrence a widower with a child to raise as well. Lawrence and my mother had another child, Fitzhugh. Fitz is my half brother through my mother, and he is also Oliver’s half brother through his father. But Oliver and I are merely stepbrothers. Lord Stewkesbury and Fitz would be your cousins if your mother was Reginald’s daughter, but I am no relation to you at all.”

  “Oh. Well.” Mary turned away to hide the relief that his words brought. She reminded herself that she was irritated with Sir Royce. “It scarcely matters anyway, does it, since you believe we are common thieves.”

  “Oh, no. You are most uncommon,” he retorted, and a ghost of a smile hovered on his lips. “As to your thievery—well, I must admit, it does seem unlikely that you could have arranged our meeting.”

  “That isn’t the same as saying that you believe we are the earl’s cousins.”

  “You must allow that there is little way I could know that.”

  “Some people are able to judge one’s honesty just from speaking to a person.” Mary made a dismissive gesture. “In any case, it matters little whether you believe us or not. We are not asking for your help in presenting our case to the earl.”

  “But, Mary, why not?” Lily protested.

  “It seems to me that Sir Royce would be most helpful,” Rose agreed. “He could tell the earl our story, and then he would be more likely to see us.”

  “I will find a way to address the earl.” Mary set her jaw. “I shall locate this club of his and go to see him there.”

  “Good Gad!” Sir Royce looked shocked. “You cannot go to his club!”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “For one thing, they will not allow you in. It is a gentlemen’s club. No woman of any sort is admitted. And if you showed up on their doorstep, it would ruin you socially.”

  “As if I care for that!”

  “You should, if you and your sisters are who you say you are,” he shot back.

  “Then I shall sit down and write the man a letter and take it round to him.” Such a tame course was not what Mary wanted to do, but she was not about to ask this arrogant man for help.

  Royce sighed and came over to her. “Miss Bascombe, I apologize profusely for any insult I may have offered you. Pray, sit down and tell me your story. Then we will see what can be done.”

  Mary would have liked to hold out a little longer, just to show him that she wanted nothing from him, but her pragmatic nature won out. “Very well.”

  She sat down on the sofa beside Rose, and Royce pulled over one of the straight-backed chairs and settled into it, as if preparing for a long tale. “Now …”

  “Our mother was Reginald’s daughter Flora,” Mary began. She proceeded to tell him the full story of her parents’ hasty wedding and the earl’s disapproval, though she skipped over her mother’s second marriage to the odious Cosmo Glass, as well as her and her sisters’ hasty departure from the United States.

  “We have papers showing that we are Flora’s children,” she finished. “It isn’t as if we expect the earl to believe us without any proof.”

  “I see.” Royce regarded her, a twinkle growing in his eyes. “Well, well. I wonder what the righteous Oliver will have to say about this.”

  “I am so glad that our situation provides you with amusement,” Mary snapped.

  “Oh, no, your situation does not. I am in full sympathy with you, I assure you. It is the thought of Oliver’s expression when I present you to him that amuses me.”

  “You mean you are going to take us to him?” Mary asked, her irritation vanishing in a flood of relief.

  “I have little choice in the matter, it would seem.”

  “When?” Lily asked eagerly. “When can we meet him? Tomorrow?”

  He gave the young girl a smile. “I see no reason to wait that long. I suggest we pay the earl a visit this afternoon.”

  Chapter 5

  Mary’s second arrival at the home of the Earl of Stewkesbury was a far cry from the first one. This time she and her sisters stepped down from S
ir Royce’s elegant carriage. And when he knocked and the same haughty footman opened the door, the servant’s face immediately was creased with a broad smile.

  “Sir Royce! Good afternoon, sir.” He stepped back to allow Royce to enter, and his gaze fell upon Mary, standing at Sir Royce’s side. His jaw dropped. “You!”

  He looked as though he was about to say more, but he saw Sir Royce regarding him with cool inquiry and shut his mouth.

  “Yes, James?” Sir Royce asked. “Is there a problem?”

  “I—well, no, sir. That is—” He cast another disbelieving glance at Mary.

  “Why don’t you tell Lord Stewkesbury I am here?” Royce suggested, ending the man’s dilemma.

  “Yes, sir, of course, sir.” James bowed and hurried away.

  As the footman headed up the stairs, Mary looked around her. Even the grand kitchen had not prepared her for the splendor of the entry hall of Stewkesbury House. Large squares of black and white marble stretched away from the front door into an enormous room that rose two stories. On the walls hung massive portraits and landscapes and even, Mary noticed in some amazement, a large oil painting of a black horse. There were heavy padded benches and chairs scattered around the walls and long wooden tables holding large urns and candelabra. The centerpiece of the hall, however, was the grand staircase that rose before them, twice the width of an ordinary staircase up to the first landing, then splitting into two as it continued in either direction to the second floor. If this room had been built and decorated to awe its visitors, Mary thought, it certainly succeeded. Glancing at her sisters, she could see that their impressions were the same.

  Rose turned to look at her, and Mary saw the almost fearful look in Rose’s wide blue eyes, a look that said, Surely we don’t belong here!

  “Well, ladies …” Sir Royce turned to them, seemingly undaunted by their surroundings. “Why don’t we wait for the earl someplace a trifle less drafty?”

  He ushered them across the entryway and into a large room. Two sets of tall windows hung with red velvet drapes looked out onto the wide street outside. Dark teak furniture dominated the chamber, and it took Mary a moment to realize that the arms of the sofa and chairs ended in carved dragon’s heads. Red silk cushions padded the seats, and gold-and-white—patterned wallpaper repeated the theme of Chinese dragons.

  The girls stared about the room in amazement.

  “Forgive the décor,” Sir Royce told them. “One of Oliver’s aunts became rather obsessed with chinoiserie during the Prince’s building of the Pavilion in Brighton. I cannot imagine how she ever persuaded the old earl to let her do it. However, it is the most comfortable drawing room in the place.”

  Mary glanced around her at the elegant silks and velvets, the smooth rich wood, the thick rug beneath their feet, and wondered how this could be classified as “comfortable.” She had never seen anyplace that was at once so elegant and so exotic.

  She glanced at Royce suspiciously. Was the man serious? Or had he brought them here purposely to intimidate them? He appeared to be without guile as he directed them toward the sofa and settled in one of the chairs beside it.

  Mary perched on the edge of her seat and steeled herself for the moments ahead. Her chest was so tight she felt she might choke. Her mother had said that their grandfather was a wealthy and influential man, but Mary had pictured him rather like Mr. Treadwell who owned the mill in Three Corners. She was discovering that she had not understood the sort of wealth and position her mother meant—and in which her mother had once lived! It was bizarre to think of her mother sitting in this very room when she was a girl, feeling at home in the way that Sir Royce clearly did.

  Mary turned to look at him. The laughing light had returned to his eyes, and she wondered why he had been willing—nay, almost eager—to bring them here after his initial protest. Perhaps he was simply being gentlemanly or kind, but there was something about the hint of laughter twitching at the corner of his mouth that made him look like a naughty schoolboy about to play a trick on the teacher.

  “Chin up.” The corners of Sir Royce’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “The earl’s not so fearsome really. Just stand your ground.”

  Something eased inside Mary. Whatever mischief Royce might be up to, he also wanted to help her.

  “Royce!” A man strode briskly into the room, his mouth curving up into a smile. “I scarce believed my ears when James told me you were here. What brings—” He stopped, taking in the sight of the four girls grouped on the settee, and his expression changed to a look of faint puzzlement. “Oh. Beg pardon. James neglected to mention that you had brought company.” He ended his statement with a look of polite inquiry toward Sir Royce.

  Mary regarded the man with interest. This must be her cousin, the man who would decide her and her sisters’ fate. He did not look fearsome, she thought. He was handsome, more so when warmth had lit his features as he greeted Royce than a moment later, when he realized he was among strangers and his face settled into a cooler, more distant mask. He was tall, though not quite as tall as Sir Royce, and he had the broad shoulders and well-muscled arms of an avid horseman. His hair was dark brown and his eyes were gray, the color of a stormy sea. He was dressed impeccably but sensibly, eschewing the high collar points and patterned waistcoats sported by some of the men Mary had glimpsed that afternoon. Even his snowy cravat was tied in a most unremarkable way.

  “Hallo, Stewkesbury.” Sir Royce rose to greet him. “Pray, allow me to introduce you to Miss Bascombe and her sisters, Miss Rose, Miss Lily, and Miss Camellia Bascombe.”

  “Welcome to my home.” The earl bowed, then glanced once again toward his stepbrother.

  “The Bascombes are from the United States.”

  “Indeed? Well, you have come a long distance indeed.” His expression was much too polite to give away any curiosity. “From which part of the country do you hail?”

  “Pennsylvania, most recently,” Mary answered. She studied him, looking for any sign of kinship. There was the dark hair, of course, such as she and Rose had, but beyond that … Was there any likeness about the eyes? The chin? She had to confess that she could detect nothing.

  “Indeed? I know less than I should, no doubt, about America.”

  Mary knew that he must be wondering what the devil they were doing here, and she cast about for some polite way to ease into the subject.

  But Royce was already plunging ahead. “They have come from the United States expressly to meet you,” he told Oliver. “They are, it seems, your cousins.”

  The earl absorbed this knowledge with admirable aplomb, not betraying his surprise with more than a blink. “Ah. I see. I am doubly happy to make your acquaintance. You are, um, related to us through … ah … ?”

  Mary seized her courage and stood up, taking a step toward the man. “My grandfather was Reginald, Lord Stewkesbury.”

  The other man’s face went still, and his eyes flashed toward Royce. “Is this your idea of a jest?”

  “You would think so of me,” Royce replied. His voice was easy and light, but there was a steely quality underlying the tone. He picked an indiscernible speck of lint from the sleeve of his jacket. “However, jests are more in Fitz’s line than mine, wouldn’t you say? In any case, I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Other than bringing them to meet me.”

  Royce shrugged. “I met the young ladies quite by chance. I had the opportunity of offering my aid to them, and when they told me who they were, I knew that you would wish to be the first to meet them.”

  Oliver swung his gaze over to Mary. Under the full force of his cool gray stare, Mary revised her opinion of him. The earl was, apparently, capable of seeming quite fearsome.

  “I am afraid that I have never heard of any American cousins.” His words dropped like small hard stones into the silent room.

  Mary squared her shoulders. She could not let this man intimidate her. “You don’t believe me, of course. I didn’t expect you to. Perhaps your grandfather
never mentioned his daughter Flora, who ran away to marry the man she loved.”

  Stewkesbury’s eyes widened a fraction, and Mary knew that her last remark had struck home. “She married Miles Bascombe and moved to the United States. We are their children. I realize that you must be suspicious, so I have brought proof.”

  Picking up the leather case she had set down on the low table in front of the couch, she pulled out several papers and handed them to the earl. Somewhat reluctantly, he took the documents and began to read them.

  “There is my parents’ marriage certificate. Also, each of our birth certificates, stating our parents’ names. Well, all except Camellia’s. The courthouse burned where she was born. However, we can attest to the fact that she is our sister.”

  The earl studied the documents in his hands and turned to his stepbrother.

  Royce raised his brows eloquently. “Well?”

  Oliver shrugged. “Grandfather had a daughter Flora. He quarreled bitterly with her over the man she wanted to marry, and the girl ran away. He never knew what became of them.”

  Royce nodded. “He mentioned to me that he was estranged from his daughter, though I don’t recall her name.”

  Oliver turned back to Mary. “Where are your parents now? Why have they not come as well?”

  “They are both dead.” Mary saw no sense in trying to soften the statement. “Our father died several years back. My mother passed away a few weeks ago.”

  “Why did your mother not return before now?” he asked.

  “The earl told my mother that he was cutting her out of the family. I think she had little hope of welcome from him. Besides, she had sworn she would never speak to him again as long as she lived.” Mary could not hold back a small, wry smile. “My mother could be rather obstinate.”

  “I see.”

  “She would not have sent us here if she had felt that she had any other choice. She did not even tell us about what had happened between them until she knew she was dying. It was only that which drove her to tell us to seek her father’s help.”