Never Seduce A Scoundrel Page 16

  The steward folded his handkerchief away and then grasped the chair by its back and returned it to its place at the little table. Graves then turned to stare at Oliver, his hands behind his back.

  “Unless you can fly—which somehow I don’t doubt—I think you’ll find that chair to be quite useful in reaching my brother’s sword,” Oliver said, but Graves made no further move toward the wardrobe.

  After several moments, Oliver became more than a little incensed. “Well, are you going to fetch it or just stand there eyeing me like some old vulture?”

  “Does my lord realize how important it is to Madam that he stay at Fallstowe and comply with her request?”

  “No, your lord does not. Nor does he care. Lady Sybilla can find someone else to be part of her little game. I have had quite enough of the eccentricities of the Foxe women. It seems money has made them all mad.”

  “You think this is a game?” Graves said, and for once Oliver thought the man looked genuinely surprised.

  “I don’t know what it is, Graves. And, again, I don’t care. I simply want to go home and forget about—” He’d been about to say Cecily Foxe, but caught himself just in time. “I need to concentrate on Bellemont now. I will not be a replacement for my brother for Lady Sybilla’s amusement.”

  “Why do you think Madam wishes you to align yourself—albeit falsely—with Lady Joan?”

  Oliver raised his face to the ceiling and groaned. “Truly, Graves, must I weep?”

  “Did you know that Lord August was en route to Fallstowe when he fell from his horse?”

  Oliver opened his eyes and looked at the servant. “No. No, I didn’t. How do you—”

  “And did you also know,” the man continued, his voice rising only fractionally, but containing a tremble that betrayed his anger, “that Lord August rode with a companion on that journey?”

  “Who?” Oliver frowned. This made no sense. Why would Graves bring up the day of his brother’s death in conjunction with Sybilla’s request for Oliver to propose to Joan Barleg? If Sybilla was in truth with August when he died, why would she keep that a secret from him? Unless it wasn’t Sybilla. And Joan had been in Oliver’s bed the morning Argo had brought the news of August’s death. Who else knew Bellemont and its lord well enough to be available to him for a journey to Fallstowe?

  Oliver blinked. “Anyone who knew August loved him, would have done all in their power to save him. And my brother wouldn’t journey with a man unknown to him.” Oliver shook his head as if trying to rid himself of a troublesome insect and then looked at the steward. “None of this makes any sense.”

  Graves continued to stare at him.

  Oliver didn’t know what to do. “I thought you were to fetch my brother’s sword. You’ll need the chair.”

  “Are you to stay at Fallstowe, my lord, and assist Madam in her request?” Graves pressed.

  “No.” Oliver looked pointedly toward the chair. “I’ll just call for another servant if you continue to refuse me.”

  “Care to make a wager, my lord?”

  Oliver sighed again, and grasped the bridge of his nose for a moment.

  “If I can fetch Lord August’s sword for you without my feet leaving the ground, will you do as Madam has asked?”

  Oliver couldn’t help but laugh aloud. “Graves, that wardrobe is almost twice your height!”

  Graves only gave a solemn nod of agreement.

  Oliver chuckled. This was beyond absurd. “You only get one go at it, old crab. One attempt, and even if you should die, I’ll not remain at Fallstowe for your wake.”

  “Is there anything else, my lord?” Graves asked solicitously.

  “No, I think that covers everything. Ready, steady, go!” Oliver mocked.

  Graves rolled his eyes and then turned to stride in his dignified manner to the front of the wardrobe. The old man opened the doors carefully.

  “No standing on the ledge there—remember, feet on the floor!” Oliver stood gingerly from the bed. In moments, he would be forced to call for assistance in retrieving August’s sword, and then he would be away from Fallstowe.

  He watched, a frown drawing together slowly between his eyebrows, as Graves reached up into a dark corner of the wardrobe with one hand. The steward gave a sharp pull, and the sound of wood scraping on wood was quickly followed by a heavy bang. Graves then reached up onto the topmost shelf with both hands. When his arms reemerged from the blackness, they held at their ends the sheath and belt of the sword.

  Oliver couldn’t help but shout when he exclaimed, “A false ceiling?”

  Graves glided to a stop before Oliver and presented the weapon to him with flat palms, as if in a grand ceremony.

  Oliver jerked the sword from the old man’s hands just as someone knocked upon the chamber door. “You tricked me,” he growled.

  “Shall I see to your visitor, my lord?” The old man bowed and then turned to stride to the door. Oliver did not miss the smug expression tucked into the wrinkles of Graves’s face.

  Joan Barleg barely let the old man open the door before she burst into Oliver’s room, her cheeks flushed scarlet, both hands gripping the ends of her long plait draped over one shoulder.

  “Oliver, I know you told me not to follow you, but ...” Her words trailed away, and Oliver could not help but note her agitated state. She glanced pointedly at the steward. “That will be all, Graves.”

  The old man stared back at her levelly for a long moment, until Joan had the grace to look away, and then Graves turned his keen eyes on Oliver. “Will you be leaving us tonight, Lord Bellecote?” he asked.

  Oliver held the old man’s gaze for a long moment, gritting his teeth. “No. I’ve changed my mind, Graves. I think I shall stay on for a bit.”

  The old man gave a slight nod and then exited the room easily, as if he had every confidence in the world that Oliver would keep his word. Once the door was shut, Joan began again in earnest.

  “I know you told me not to follow you, but I—”

  “Joan, shh,” Oliver said, gesturing to her with the sword and looped belt in his left hand. “Give me a moment.” He walked to the window and looked out.

  He felt no real obligation to remain at Fallstowe on his word, since that word had been gained through trickery. But many of the things he’d learned since only last night had driven a splinter of doubt into Oliver’s brain. If Sybilla had indeed cared as deeply for August as she claimed—and Oliver knew for a fact that his brother had been in love with the woman—and if Sybilla was dissatisfied with something about August’s death, shouldn’t Oliver be as well?

  What was this thing Sybilla wanted uncovered, and even more, what was Joan herself hiding from Oliver?

  The night through the wavy glass was so black that the portion of the window behind the heavy swag of drapery was a mirror. Oliver could see Joan Barleg’s reflection, motionless in the center of the room, save for her hands petting at her hair.

  Was Joan somehow involved in August’s death?

  Somewhere deeper into the black beyond Fallstowe, Cecily Foxe lay—likely in some dank, chilly chamber. Shivering in her fear of him, fear of life itself. Would she stay there, forsaking what they had shared, what they might share again if only she would let go?

  It seemed to Oliver that his coming to Fallstowe had opened a Pandora’s box. His life would never be the same now, whether he stayed at Fallstowe and assisted Sybilla Foxe, waited for Cecily’s return, or if he went back to Bellemont. There were questions he had never before known existed, and which now demanded answers. If he could help solve this mystery Sybilla seemed convinced was real, perhaps it would show everyone who doubted that he was capable, responsible, worthy. Of Bellemont, and of Cecily.

  His eyes caught a glimpse of Joan Barleg again, and the wavy glass showed him only a milky oval where her features would be.

  “Joan,” he said musingly to the watery reflection that seemed to float in the black.

  Her hands stilled on her plait. “Yes,
Oliver?”

  “Joan,” he began again, his stomach clenching on the roiling questions in his guts, his fist gripping his brother’s sword.

  “Would you marry me, Joan?”

  Chapter 15

  Cecily had been a bit dismayed at the initial stir caused by her arrival at the abbey, especially among the youngest of the women. It seemed she was something of a celebrity here—the outrageously wealthy noblewoman who was likened already to a saint. It took the vicar’s intervention before Cecily could remove herself from the common room and the girls grasping at her sleeve.

  But supper had been quiet, simple, and Cecily was very happy to observe the chastised and modest behavior of the oblates and novices that gathered around the tables near her and John Grey. Apparently the bishop had known just the right man to send to Hallowshire to restore order amongst the rebellious young women.

  Now John Grey led her away from the dining hall through a narrow, black corridor, the candle in his left hand the only light around him as his right hand grasped her elbow.

  “Are we to retire now?” she asked, stifling a yawn. The long journey today combined with her unexpected defection to Hallowshire—and the gaping absence of Oliver Bellecote—had exhausted Cecily to the point that she thought she might drop to the stones at any moment.

  John’s footsteps slowed. “It’s terrible of me, I know. I should take you to your chamber straightaway. But there is something I wish for you to see—or hear, rather—if you would indulge me. It’s a small part of the reason I wanted you to come to Hallowshire so desperately. Do you mind? It shan’t take long.”

  Cecily was intrigued. “Of course I don’t mind. In fact, the prospect of a secret has given me new life.” She smiled at him as he regained his earlier pace. “Where are we going? Can you tell?”

  “The prayer chapel,” he said. “There is a group of monks who were traveling through the area, and their brotherhood is something you simply must witness. This night will be their last at the abbey.”

  “Are we to meet them?” she asked.

  “No.” John winced. “Actually we really aren’t supposed to fraternize with them.”

  “Vicar John!” Cecily laughed in mock scandal.

  He smiled his kind, handsome smile at her in the close glow of the candlelight. “If we keep to the shadows and stay quiet, we should be able to escape with only minor penances.”

  He drew her behind him with one hand, shielding her as they approached a small, arched wooden door braced with black iron across its planks. From beyond, Cecily thought she could hear a queer, low humming. It seemed the soles of her feet tingled with the vibrato.

  “What is that?” she whispered.

  John stopped at the door and set the candle on a stone jutting from the wall, as if placed there for that very purpose.

  “Once through the door, step immediately to your left. Shh,” he warned, bringing a finger to his lips. After she nodded, he leaned over and blew out the candle, drenching them both in cool darkness and the smell of spent wick.

  Cecily heard the slow, raspy scrape of the door open, and then felt John Grey tug on her hand. He drew her past him and Cecily felt the cavernous space of the chamber even before her eyes adjusted enough to see the faint bank of candles seemingly leagues away at the far end of the chapel. She instinctively crouched down and ducked to the left as John had instructed her, her fingers slipping from his warm grasp.

  The humming was more intense here, seeming to vibrate her ribs, her very heart. And when John Grey joined her in the far reaches of the back of the chapel, Cecily felt an expanding of her body.

  The humming turned into chanting.

  Cecily gasped as the monks, so small in the distance, began to sing in their resonant, guttural voices, so clearly that Cecily felt the tiny hairs in her ears trembling. The Latin words swelled, swirled around her head, tangled in her hair, and she felt tears coming into her eyes.

  At her side, John Grey drew closer. His arm was behind her, his left hand braced on the wall. And although he did not touch her, Cecily felt protected. He had brought her here specifically to share this secret with her, knowing somehow that it would move her.

  “It’s amazing, isn’t it?” he whispered into her ear, his words and his breath warm and humid. Gooseflesh layered upon gooseflesh on her arms and back.

  She nodded and dragged her eyes from the party of robed men to glance at John’s face. His eyes were on her already, and Cecily felt a start of surprise. He was so close—much closer than she’d thought. It struck her as odd, as she had become accustomed to sensing Oliver Bellecote’s presence from across the room.

  “It is,” she breathed. “Thank you, John.”

  He gave her a smile suddenly. “Would you care to dance?”

  Cecily brought her hand up to cover her mouth before a giggle could escape. “That’s blasphemy!” she scolded with a wide grin.

  To her amazement, John shrugged. “I don’t think so. We are celebrating the beautiful gifts given to some rather otherwise homely men. I would think it rather a tribute.”

  He was serious. The smile slowly slid from Cecily’s face.

  “I can’t,” she said.

  He gave her a quizzical grin. “Why not?”

  “Because I’ve ... I’ve never danced before.” His eyebrows rose, and she clarified. “I know how, obviously. I was taught. But I’ve never danced with ... with a man before.”

  “With all the feasts Fallstowe and your sister are host to?” he asked, as if still unable to believe it was possible.

  Cecily felt her face heat, and then shook her head awkwardly.

  John stared at her for a long moment, while the monks poured out their praise in low, close notes that sounded as if they were coming from either the depths of the earth or the highest reaches of heaven.

  “You’re like a fairy tale,” John mused.

  “Fairy tales are oft sweet exaggerations for the sake of a happy ending,” Cecily whispered, and then huffed a weary laugh. “So perhaps I am a fairy tale after all—I don’t really exist.”

  Then John Grey did touch her, grasping both of her shoulders gently and turning her toward him. He took her left elbow, and then the fingers of her right hand, and then he took a step away from her, their joined arms held suspended between them.

  “Cecily Foxe,” he asked somberly, “will you grant me the honor of a dance?”

  For so many reasons, he was the right choice. Cecily knew this just as surely as she knew the way the morning sun fell across the floor of her chamber at Fallstowe each day. And Cecily knew without either of them so much as alluding to it that her answer would grant him permission or nay to pursue her, not for Hallowshire, not for the bishop, but for himself. He could very well be the answer to her many prayers, the solution to her indecision.

  But then why did she expect to see dark, unruly hair where golden strands lay? Why did she long for eyes the color of rich, wet earth when such a beautiful shade of sky blue beckoned to her? This earnestness, this blatant sincerity before her seemed to pale before the memory of irreverent passion, reckless sin, demanding desires. A want of something that was most certainly not good for her. She was like a child who cried for too many sweets.

  Oliver Bellecote would be the ruination of her. Of her reputation, of what little pride she had left, of her heart. He would lie to her, use her. He would trample her and leave her alone at Fallstowe with only memories and pain. He was the wrong choice. Here, before her now, was the right choice.

  Cecily gave John Grey a single, solemn nod.

  And then, with the sounds of heaven helping to twirl her along with John Grey, neither one of them smiling and yet both of their eyes locked on each other’s, Cecily Foxe, at last, danced.

  She had loosely planned on staying at Hallowshire no more than a pair of days. But the company of John Grey and the peace of the abbey worked like a draught on Cecily, and she could often go an entire hour without thinking of Oliver Bellecote. She became somewhat
addicted to the hush where once jangling warnings set her to trembling.

  And so five days passed, and then five more.

  There had been only one truly dangerous moment of weakness, when Cecily had received a message from Sybilla. The missive had reported no emergency, no need for her to return. In truth, her sister had only encouraged Cecily to stay as long as she liked; Fallstowe and Lord Bellecote were managing remarkably well without her.

  Cecily’s hand had been on the latch of the door of her borrowed chamber, her small satchel packed and in her other hand, before she realized what she was doing.

  She had lifted her hand slowly, carefully from the latch, and crept backward away from the door, as if fearful that should she make any sound, the door would open of its own accord and thrust her from Hallowshire just as surely as if she’d been launched from a catapult.

  He was managing remarkably well without her.

  Of course he was. He was Oliver Bellecote. He had undoubtedly found some other diversion to entertain him, straightaway. He likely couldn’t even recall what Cecily looked like.

  And so Cecily had stayed, and she had learned that she might have been quite content to make the abbey her home, had she committed long ago. There was a schedule, a rhythm to the days and nights that spoke to her. The novices were a diverse bunch, some shy and reserved, others jubilant and full of sweet mischief, but all of them together made the large, peaceful retreat a tapestry of joyful service. Yes, Cecily could envision herself at Hallowshire easily, if not for her corruption at Oliver Bellecote’s hands.

  As well as the abbey’s bland, seldom changing menu, which of late had Cecily longing for one of Cook’s dried apple tarts, drizzled with fresh cream. She had even dreamed of plates and plates of the sweet dish, and had woken the next morning with her stomach growling painfully. She could no longer abide the taste of any sort of fish, which seemed to be presented at each meal. Even the smell of it now was enough to make her want to retch.