Never Seduce A Scoundrel Read online

  Perfectly reasonable.

  He shifted uncomfortably in his seat as the women to his right continued to chat about the stupid sliver of rock Sybilla had given Joan last night.

  “Think you I placed it too far from my head?” Joan whined.

  Sybilla shrugged and swirled the contents of her chalice. “Perhaps, since you slept so very poorly. You may do well to sleep with it.”

  “You mean hold it in my hand or something of that sort?”

  “There’s an idea,” Sybilla mused, and then took a sip of her wine.

  Joan nodded decisively. “I shall try that then tonight. I am certain that it should work. Something so beautiful must be powerful, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Completely,” Sybilla said mildly.

  Oliver was in the process of rolling his eyes when he caught sight of the slender old man dressed in long robes, making his way toward the dais. It could be no other than Father Perry, and if he was back from the mission across the countryside, Cecily could not be far away. Perhaps she was fatigued and had gone straight to her rooms. No matter, Oliver would simply put off Sybilla until the morrow, after he had a chance to talk to Cecily.

  “Peace be with you, my lady,” the priest said with a broad smile.

  “And also with you, Father,” Sybilla answered. “How fares the village?”

  “Well. We performed the Lord’s work today, most surely. Your generosity was appreciated more than you can know. God will reserve a special place for you.”

  Oliver wasn’t certain, but he thought he heard Sybilla Foxe snort daintily.

  “I pray that is true, Father,” she said. “Where is my sister? I hope not infested with lice again. Cecily always feels she must cuddle all the children.”

  “Not this time,” Father Perry chuckled good-naturedly. “But alas she is not here for you to confirm for yourself.”

  Warning clangs—like crashing cymbals—began sounding in Oliver’s already pounding head.

  “Not here?” Sybilla thankfully gave voice to the questions banging on the back side of Oliver’s teeth. “Where is she?”

  “She’s gone on to Hallowshire, my lady. With the vicar.”

  The crashing cymbals in Oliver’s ears threaded out into a loud buzz, and it felt as though the bottom had dropped out of his stomach.

  Sybilla huffed a little disbelieving laugh and then leaned back in her chair as if she, too, was stumped. “In truth? My, my, Father. Vicar John must be of the persuasive sort.”

  “That he is, my lady,” Perry affirmed with a grin. “I do believe he has taken a special interest in Lady Cecily, and she values his opinion and regard quite highly.”

  “That gladdens my heart,” Sybilla said in a low, intense voice.

  “And mine as well,” Father said with a knowing look, and Oliver could not help but feel that, even though the conversation was taking place directly before him, something was being alluded to that he did not understand.

  “Did she say how long she will stay before coming home?” Sybilla asked, and then leaned forward slightly. “Is she coming home?”

  “She did not say,” Father Perry confirmed. “She very pointedly did not say.”

  “I see,” Sybilla half sung.

  Father Perry nodded sagely.

  “What in bloody hell is going on?” Oliver blurted, the pounding in his skull making his vision dance. Everyone turned surprised eyes to him, but he didn’t care. “Is she coming back or isn’t she?”

  Father Perry gave Oliver an amused smile, and Oliver wanted to blaspheme just to spite the meek little messenger.

  “Only God knows, my son.”

  “Only G—” Oliver broke off and clenched his teeth together. But even he could hear the strangled sounds struggling to form into words and burst free from his mouth. His arm throbbed as if a strong little man stood near his elbow, thrashing it with a club. He stood abruptly, the chair legs squealing on the stones beneath his seat.

  “If you will excuse me.” Oliver turned and gave Sybilla a short bow. “My lady.”

  “Oliver, what on earth has come over you?” Joan demanded with a puzzled laugh. “I do vow that little blow to your head has completely wuzzled your personability. I’m sure your nurse is quite fine, as you will be with or without her. Don’t leave us so soon—we’ve not even had the pudding yet.”

  “I don’t care for any bloody pudding,” Oliver ground out. “Thank you.”

  Sybilla raised her chalice to her lips again, and although Oliver knew the lady was still waiting on his answer of the offer she’d put forth, she didn’t bother to cast her eyes in his direction as she spoke against the rim of her cup.

  “The pudding’s quite good.” She took a sip. “August never missed the pudding.”

  It was the final straw.

  He threw his napkin onto his platter and turned, making his way from the dais and swerving through a right, then a left turn to gain the main aisle. He heard a chair screech from its place just behind him, and then Joan called out.

  “Oliver, wait!”

  “No!” He threw his left hand over his head but kept walking. “No, Joan. Whatever you do, do not follow me.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To gather my belongings,” he tossed over his shoulder.

  “But I don’t want to leave yet!” she whined.

  “Then for the love of sweet Christ in heaven, don’t!” he shouted. His steps hesitated for an instant, and he added somewhat more somberly, “Beg pardon, Father.”

  He stormed through the doorway of the great hall, up the short flight of stairs leading to the entry, and then started toward the main thoroughfare to the upper chambers.

  If Cecily Foxe cared so little for him that she could simply take her leave from Fallstowe without so much as a good-bye, then so could Oliver. He hadn’t been himself since that damned Foxe Ring, and now he’d had enough. To hell with her. Oliver hoped she was very happy at her blasted nunnery. To hell with heartless Sybilla Foxe and her harebrained, selfish schemes, as well. To hell with everyone and everything at Fallstowe.

  He was going home.

  Sybilla glanced over her shoulder at Graves, and in that same instant, the old steward turned from her and disappeared through the narrow doorway set in the wall behind the dais. Then she turned her attention back to the still smiling priest.

  “Was there anything else my sister wished to tell me, Father?”

  “Only that she is very sorry for any inconvenience her absence might cause you,” the man said with a knowing smile.

  Sybilla returned it. “Thank you. Won’t you join us, Father Perry?”

  “Thank you, my lady, but no. I am not as young as I once was, and feel the desire for my own warm bed more insistently than I do a warm meal.”

  “I bid you good night, then,” Sybilla said.

  Father Perry bowed, and then made the sign of the cross in the air over the table before turning and walking away in his swishing robes.

  Sybilla turned to Joan Barleg, who was twisting her napkin into a knot on her lap, a worried frown creasing her high, youthful brow.

  “Lady Joan, I am not as familiar with Lord Bellecote as you are,” Sybilla said mildly, reaching once more for her chalice. “Does he always react in such a manner when offered pudding?”

  “The temper you mean?” Joan asked. At Sybilla’s half nod, the girl continued. “No. Not at all. It’s why I jested with him about the blow to his head. Oliver has always had an easy nature. His behavior of late has been more akin to August’s than his own.” Then Joan gave a little gasp and turned wide eyes to Sybilla. “Please forgive me, my lady.”

  “Forgive you what, Lady Joan?” She brought the cup to her lips and drank.

  “For mentioning ... well, so soon after—” She broke off. “Of course, you would be familiar with August’s temper. I didn’t mean to cause you any undue grief.” She leaned forward slightly. “Are you griefish, Lady Sybilla?”

  “Intensely,” Sybilla ans
wered, and even to her own ears, her tone was full of cynicism. “Why would you think August ever showed me anything but kindness?”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean to imply that he—I only meant that since you ... Well, it was said the two of you were very fond of one another.”

  Sybilla hummed slightly, as if Joan Barleg had said something of high interest. “I am very fond of several people, Lady Joan. Some a bit more than others, though, I suppose. Should any of them happen to die suddenly, I do imagine that I would feel rather put out.”

  Joan Barleg frowned slightly and then sat back in her chair. After a moment, she sighed. “Well, then. I suppose I should go to my own chamber and gather my things.”

  Sybilla turned her head slightly to glance at the girl. “Whatever for?”

  “Oliver said that he was leaving.”

  “Oliver also said, in quite a clear if uncharitable manner, that you should stay here if you wish.” Now she looked at the young woman fully, studying her. “Now that Lady Cecily has gone on to Hallowshire, I have no female contemporaries to keep me company.”

  Joan Barleg’s eyes brightened. “Truly, Lady Sybilla? You would have me stay only to keep your company?”

  “It is my utmost wish at this point, Joan.” Sybilla smiled. “It’s all right that I call you Joan, isn’t it? You may call me Sybilla, if you like.”

  Joan Barleg appeared ready to either cry or faint. “Of course you may call me Joan! Sybilla,” she added with a simpering smile. Then her face fell. “Oh, but I can’t. I really shouldn’t. Oliver is still quite injured, and since that disgusting Argo has already departed for Bellemont, I can’t let him travel the whole of the way alone.” Joan seemed to think hard for a moment, and when she next spoke, her words were whispered on a breath of confession. “Besides, he has yet to propose properly to me, and I do fear I must strive to give him every opportunity.”

  Sybilla leaned heavily on the right arm of her chair. “Joan.” She crooked her left index finger at the girl, prompting her to mirror her pose. “Shall I tell you a little secret?”

  Joan Barleg nodded rapidly. “Yes, yes! Do!”

  “I think,” Sybilla drew out, and then glanced around the hall pointedly before turning her attention to Joan once more, “that Oliver won’t go back to Bellemont tonight.”

  Joan’s eyebrows rose.

  Sybilla nodded. “I also think that the reason he will stay is ... you.”

  “Me?” Joan squeaked.

  Again, Sybilla nodded. “Breathe not a word of this conversation to him, you vow?”

  “Of course!” Joan hissed.

  “The two of us, Oliver and I, were speaking of a betrothal between you and him only this morn.”

  All the color drained out of Lady Joan Barleg’s face. “You advised him?”

  “I did.” Sybilla leaned back in her chair.

  “Well, what did he say?”

  “He hadn’t decided.” Sybilla picked up her chalice once more. Empty. Dammit. She rattled its base on the table before setting it back down. In a blink, a kitchen girl appeared with a skin in hand.

  “Is there naught I can do to sway him?”

  Sybilla shrugged and then took her now-full cup in hand again.

  Joan looked confused for a moment. “But he told me not to follow him. I don’t think angering him will further my cause.” She paused, looking earnestly at Sybilla. “Do you?”

  Sybilla gave the girl a slow, solemn wink.

  In the next moment, Joan had tossed her napkin atop her own platter and rose from the table, stomping in a dainty manner from the dais and marching down the center aisle.

  Sybilla watched her go.

  Oliver had not had time to properly put away the things Joan Barleg and Argo had brought him from Bellemont, and so there was precious little to do to prepare for his departure. Everything was still neatly contained in the leather sack save the belt holding his scabbard and sword—August’s scabbard and sword—which Argo had hidden atop the tall wardrobe. Oliver stared up at the piece of weighty furniture, easily nine feet tall, considering the ornately carved molding around its crown.

  He couldn’t reach it, and he couldn’t leave it here.

  “Damn Cecily Foxe.” Oliver turned and looked around the room behind him, flickering in the weak light of only the hearth and a single flame near the bedside. He spied the straight-backed chair at the small table.

  “Ah-ha,” he growled, and then marched toward the would-be ladder. “Not so much as a farewell,” he continued to mutter as he dragged the chair on two legs across the floor. He cursed and jerked on the piece when it caught on the edge of a rug. “Rather spend her time with a moldy old priest, would she? Fine, then. Brilliant. Perfect!” He slammed the chair down on all four legs before the wardrobe, shifted its position a bit.

  “Should she think that I’ll simply wait here for her like some lost pup, well”—he gave a stuttering huff of a laugh—“I think not!” He grasped the back of the chair with his left hand, shook it to check the stability. “I am Oliver Bellecote, Lord of Bellemont! I wait for no woman!” He placed his right foot on the seat of the chair and then pushed off with his left leg.

  He was forced to release his hold on the chair back, and now stood atop the chair, swaying slightly, his blood bursting through his right arm as his heart pounded and his head swam. He was surprised at how much his stamina had deteriorated. He waited for the throbbing fire to quiet before carefully reaching up with his left arm, the lintel biting into the middle of his forearm, his stretched ribs screaming for mercy beneath the tight bindings around his chest. He felt for the top of the wardrobe with his hand, but his fingers met only air.

  “Perfect!” he bit off, and withdrew his hand. Apparently the ornate carvings atop the wardrobe gave a greater illusion of height than was accurate. Oliver guessed that the proper top to the piece—where his sword lay—was at least twelve inches beyond the reach of his fingers.

  He leaned into the piece, and reached up once more, standing on the tips of his boots. He felt ridiculous, like a lad in the larder attempting to sneak a biscuit from the cook’s special jar. If only he could reach a bit farther, get his elbow crooked fully over the edge ...

  A rap sounded on his door so suddenly and so loudly, that Oliver cried out and slid to the right against the side of the wardrobe. He gripped the top of the lintel at the last moment, saving himself from falling from the chair directly onto his broken arm. Pain like silver, liquid fire swirled around his ribcage.

  Another knock, and then a dusty old voice called out to him from beyond the door, “Lord Bellecote, are you all right?”

  It was Graves. That maggoty old servant had nearly killed him!

  Oliver righted his stance, but kept a firm hold on the wardrobe’s top. “I’m fine, Graves, thank you.”

  “Did I hear a scream, my lord?”

  “It wasn’t a scream, it was a shout. A shout of surprise. I’m fine.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes,” Oliver ground out.

  Oliver heard only the pounding of his own heart and the creaking of his ribs for several moments, until he was convinced that the steward had at last left. He leaned into the wardrobe and was just reaching over the top once more when the scratchy voice sounded again, surprisingly robust.

  “May I help you collect your belongings, my lord?”

  Oliver shouted again—truly, it was a shout, not a scream—and craned his head around to spy the old man standing in the middle of the chamber floor, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “How did you get in here?” Oliver barked.

  Graves’s sparse eyebrows rose mildly and he looked over his shoulder at the door. “Did you not hear my knock, my lord?”

  “Yes,” Oliver ground out. “But I did not bid you to enter.”

  “Shall I leave?” The old man half turned.

  Oliver realized he was still standing on a chair, attempting to gain his most prized personal possession. A chore that his physica
l injuries were making impossible.

  “No,” Oliver said suddenly. “Come here and clasp your hands together, like a stirrup. I think if perhaps I get a bit more leverage I could—”

  “My lord, whatever are you trying to do?”

  “It’s my sword, Graves,” he said impatiently. “My man placed it atop this damnably high wardrobe, and I cannot reach it with my arm and ribs bound as they are. But if you allow me to place my foot in your—”

  “Shall I fetch it for you, Lord Oliver?”

  “I can do it myself.”

  “How could I doubt you?” the old man said with more than a bit of sarcasm in his tone. “But don’t you think it would be more prudent for me to retrieve your weapon rather than you risking further injury to yourself?”

  “I said I can do it, Graves. Either shut up and come over here or be gone.”

  The servant stepped to the side of the chair and laced his long, pale fingers together obediently. His face was expressionless and he stared at the wide wall of the wardrobe rather than look at Oliver, although he did give a great sigh.

  Oliver placed his right boot into the cradle of Graves’s hands and stepped up, pulling with his left hand until he could hook his elbow over the lip of the wardrobe. His fingers stretched, stretched.

  “Dammit! Not high enough! Lift me up, Graves,” Oliver panted.

  “Does my lord know that he is quite heavy?” the old servant wheezed.

  “Fine! Put me down, put me down!” Both Oliver’s feet at last connected with the chair seat, and he slapped at the servant’s hands at his waist as Graves wasted no time in encouraging Oliver to get down completely from the chair.

  He turned to the steward, who had taken a white lace kerchief from some pocket and was now fussily wiping at his palms. “I can’t leave here without it, Graves. It’s August’s sword. You’ll have to fetch a ladder, I suppose.”

  Graves quirked an eyebrow. “If my lord will allow me?”

  “I am not responsible to your mistress should you fall and break your old neck,” Oliver warned, and went to sit on the edge of the mattress, to slow his breathing and rest his trunk, which ached from his collarbone to his hips.