Her Gilded Prison (Daughters of Sin Book 1) Read online

  His expression was inscrutable, as usual. Never once in twenty years had Sybil ever intercepted a look between her husband and Lizzy Hazlett that suggested they spent almost every evening and many nights together.

  Lizzy’s children were equally well trained.

  Sybil lowered her eyes and pretended to pray while she dreamed of sinking into a tub of hot bath suds as soon as they returned. A megrim was coming on and she needed to ease the tension from her limbs. All she’d done since Humphry had come to her bed three months ago for a repeat performance of the debacle three years ago was worry about the future.

  Chapter Three

  “My dear Mr. Cranbourne, of course it is nonsense for you to put up at The Wren.” Lord Partington put paid to Stephen’s protests with enough conviction for Stephen to be entirely comfortable giving orders for his trunk to be conveyed to the Grange. “Did I not say it in my letter?”

  The letter had been such a bombshell Stephen had refused to completely believe its contents until it could be confirmed, in person, by Lord Partington.

  Some of the tense, wound-up feeling he’d bottled up inside relaxed.

  Lord Partington hadn’t said how long he was to remain his guest and Stephen had wondered if in fact he’d been summoned on spec.

  Fortunately it seemed he passed muster on first impressions. Lady Partington had been gracious, Lord Partington enthusiastic and judging by the gleam in the lovely Araminta’s eye, he could look forward to some mild flirtation.

  He forced back an image of Lady Julia, determined to conduct himself with the utmost propriety, saying conversationally as he leaned across the small space in the carriage, “I remember meeting you when I was a lad and you were both little girls.” He smiled. “And now you are beautiful young women.”

  Yes, he would conduct himself with propriety but he could afford to flirt. Lord Partington was riding on the box with the coachman and the ladies had made clear their welcome.

  Cousin Araminta smiled. “Nor are you the shy young lad I remember who preferred to catch tadpoles rather than play with your cousins, Mr. Cranbourne,” she said coyly, perhaps for her mother’s benefit for her eyes flashed the subtext for which he’d been fishing. “I remember not all our dolls, dressed for the occasion of your visit, could entice you, although we tried to interest you in the elaborate rig-outs of one-eyed Miss Lilly Vanilly and bald Lady Jane Tremain. I hope you will be less interested in tadpoles this visit, Mr. Cranbourne. Or should I say Cousin Stephen?”

  “Of course you should,” Lady Partington interjected. Araminta, beside her, fixed him with her curiously feline smile as she smoothed the folds of her dress. She managed to combine sexual allure with enough girlish innocence to please all parties in the carriage, for clearly her mother was unaware of the lures she was casting.

  “I shall try to be less disappointing,” he replied. “Ten-year-old boys understand far less than young girls about what’s important but now my vocabulary is sufficiently broadened to be able to remark that your eyes are reflected by the color of your gown, whose fashionable name I believe is Pomona green.”

  With blinding clarity he recalled the candlelight catching the lustrous folds of Lady Julia’s Pomona-green gown in their trysting closet and confusion washed over him.

  What had she been about? He’d left their home rather as a street urchin who’d been invited into the inner sanctum and after supping and being cosseted like a princeling by a lovely queen had been booted out into the night—but with promises of similar delights in a nebulous future.

  This feeling was distinctly assuaged by the interest in Cousin Araminta’s assessing green eyes. He recalled Lady Julia’s remarks about the girl.

  Could Araminta really have marked him out?

  “Very clever, Cousin Stephen,” she murmured. “Where did you learn that, for you have no sisters?”

  “I’m not a complete novice when it comes to ladies’ attire,” he responded. “Where were you when you got the letter, Mr. Cranbourne?”

  Although it was the first question Cousin Hetty addressed to him, her mother caged her daughter’s hand and murmured, “It is not polite to be so direct, Hetty.”

  “I’m not embarrassed by directness, Lady Partington,” he assured her, transfixed by

  Miss Araminta’s full, enticing mouth.

  To his surprise she met his look squarely.

  “To answer your question, I had recently returned from Spain and was staying with an aunt in Dorset.”

  “You were in Spain?” Hetty’s hazel eyes widened and she looked almost pretty with the light burnishing her light-brown hair. “That’s where our poor cousin Edgar died of a bullet wound.”

  She gave a little hiccup of distress and Lady Partington patted her hand, adding by way of explanation, “Hetty was very fond of her cousin Edgar. They were great playmates when they were children. His death came as a shock to everyone.”

  He registered the pain in Lady Partington’s eyes and the tightness of her mouth and shifted awkwardly.

  How did Lady Partington regard the young usurper, Stephen Cranbourne, whose arrival reinforced the absence of her beloved George? Of Edgar?

  “I am very sorry for your losses, Lady Partington,” he murmured, resisting the urge to stroke her lilac-gloved hand. It was true that women with flashing pomona-green eyes communicated instant excitement to his nether regions but gentle-natured, doe- eyed women like Lady Partington and her younger daughter appealed to the chivalric part of his nature.

  When the carriage drew up in front of the steps, Lady Partington left the young people chatting on the front portico before departing to ensure Stephen’s room had been satisfactorily prepared.

  “I’m so sorry to leave you like this but I have the most terrible megrim and Araminta will look after you. The reverend’s fiery pronouncements have done nothing to improve my aching head,” she’d said by way of parting.

  As the front doors closed behind her, Stephen indicated the well-kept grassy slopes and roses bushes. “Perhaps we could take a turn about the garden since the weather has turned so agreeable,” he suggested, not being disposed to drawing room chatter when he’d much rather get a sense of the dimensions of his future domain.

  He glanced across the verdant green lawn toward the beech woods that bordered the manicured gardens. Shooting parties in August? A spear of anticipation shot through him as the young ladies readily agreed to his suggestion before hurrying upstairs to fetch shawls and change their clothes with the promise to meet him in five minutes.

  Stephen wandered out into the center of the lawn and gazed up at the Queen Anne façade of the Grange. How could it be improved? A conservatory? A new wing? Perhaps a tennis court. He’d never imagined being in a position to put his own stamp on things.

  Hetty’s girlish giggles made him turn and he smiled to see the two young ladies crossing the lawn toward him. Cousin Hetty fairly galloped. Beside her, Cousin Araminta had perfected the regal glide. With her glossy dark hair and her proud eyes she looked like no other member of her family.

  Hetty pointed at the Grange. “So, Cousin Stephen, do you like our home?”

  Araminta immediately quashed Hetty’s high spirits. “Cousin Stephen is surveying the house that will be his after Papa meets his maker.” Her look was pert. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Cranbourne?”

  Hetty wasn’t the only one whose spirits were quashed. Stephen managed a brittle smile. “You must resent that the Grange passes out of the family because you have no brothers, Cousin Araminta.”

  “I refuse to resent what I cannot change, Cousin Stephen.” Araminta tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “Let us walk and I will answer everything I can about our family and the estate.”

  Gallantly, Stephen offered Hetty his other arm. He’d seen her uncertainty. “It will be many years before you must worry about your home passing to me,” he assured them. “Your father is in excellent health and has merely asked me here because he is a wise man who plans ahead.”
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  “What would you like to know, Cousin Stephen?” Araminta reeled him back to her. “No doubt you have questions that must have kept you awake since receiving Papa’s letter.”

  Stephen met her challenging look with a smile. So there was resentment after all. “I had no idea Edgar had died,” he said with complete candor. “Not once did it enter my head that I should one day inherit and become the next Viscount Partington.”

  “Please, don’t speak of Edgar again. I can’t bear it,” said Hetty. “For months I’ve prayed he’d turn up unexpectedly on our doorstep—”

  “Well, that’s a nice thing to say to Cousin Stephen,” Araminta snapped. Composing her smile, she asked conversationally, “So where did you spend last night, Cousin Stephen?”

  After an uncomfortable pause, Stephen replied, “I was the guest of Lady Julia and Sir Archibald.” Adjusting his suddenly too-tight high collar, he directed an enquiring look at Araminta, who’d burst into shrill laughter.

  “Lady Julia!” She emphasized the title with heavy scorn. “Why, she’s the most designing brownnoser I’ve ever come across, the daughter of a wool merchant who spared no expense in seeing she was tricked out to make a good catch.”

  Hetty tugged her sleeve, looking worried as she reminded her sister in an undertone, “Lady Julia is a friend of Cousin Stephen’s.”

  Araminta tossed her head. “Surely Cousin Stephen is a friend of Sir Archibald. Sir Archie and Lady Julia have been married such a short time and only because—” She broke off, clearly reconsidering her words. “Ah well, you’re right, Hetty. It’s not my place to tell Cousin Stephen what he already knows and what you have no need to know.”

  As they negotiated a small dip in the path, Stephen was glad that Hetty took umbrage at her condescending tone. He’d very much like to know what he supposedly already knew.

  “Why ought I not know the reason they married, Araminta? I shall be coming out in a few months. You’re not that ahead of me.”

  Araminta slanted a sly look at the pair of them. “Miss Julia’s eyes are as sharp as her nose and she knows how to sniff out a sure thing. Well, that’s what everyone said when she fainted into Lord Clairmont’s arms at Hatchard’s Bookshop the day after she took up Laetitia Milbank’s challenge that she couldn’t inveigle herself into his carriage.”

  “But Lord Clairmont’s in his dotage!”

  “Just over forty and definitely in need of a wife, though not of Miss Julia’s ilk. Anyway.” Araminta rolled her eyes and resumed her tale. “Quite by chance, it seems, she was in Hatchard’s when he walked in, whereupon she promptly fainted right into his arms. He had her carried to his carriage whereupon his lady friend’s vinaigrette quickly had her up to the mark.”

  Hetty appeared let down by the story. “So she didn’t receive a marriage offer, then?”

  “No, but she used her trickery to get herself into his carriage and won her wager, which Miss Laetitia Milbank had to hand over that afternoon when Miss Julia called upon her with two witnesses and, believe me, that was worth a tidy sum.”

  “How big was the wager?” asked Stephen, feeling distinctly green around the gills.

  “It was big.” Cousin Araminta’s eyes grew round. “Miss Milbank’s pearl choker, would you believe? A small fortune, but then Miss Julia will take big risks for big stakes.” In an undertone she added, “Word is she took the biggest risk of all to snare Sir Archie but was then awfully miffed to discover his prospects weren’t at all as grand as she’d been led to believe.”

  Stephen cleared his throat. “They appeared a very devoted couple,” he lied. He was conscious of the lack of conviction in his tone and not surprised Araminta seized upon it.

  “Of course! Lady Julia didn’t get where she did without being a consummate actress. Now, Cousin Stephen, I’m glad to note you’re nothing like our other cousin, poor Edgar, who was next in line after Papa. You’re tall and athletic and very handsome while Edgar was dumpy with sandy hair and freckles and couldn’t talk about anything except hunting and shooting. Quite frankly, poor Edgar was a clodpoll.” Miss Araminta said it as if it were the last word. She seemed the kind of young lady who liked having the last word on everything.

  “How can you say such a thing?” Hetty looked murderous.

  Stephen could not resist a smile. “Your loyalty is to be commended, Cousin Hetty.” “It wasn’t me who said it.” Miss Araminta looked smug. “It was Papa, if you must know.”

  “Papa?”

  Stephen patted Hetty’s hand, understanding her betrayal amidst the undercurrents. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it. I’m sure Edgar was an excellent sort.”

  “He was my best friend.” Hetty looked away, silent as her sister changed the subject, pointing to the house.

  “There’s Mama’s wing, to the right,” Araminta said. “Papa’s is on the other side. Hetty and I are at the back with no view at all while you will have one of the guest bedrooms that run between them, perhaps even the room the late King George stayed in.”

  “You are very proud of your home.”

  “I love it more than anything.” This was spoken with quiet fervor.

  “The footman is about to take in my trunk.” In the distance Stephen saw the carriage that had obviously been dispatched to fetch his belongings draw up in front of the portico. “I have a present for you, ladies, which I would like to give to you now.”

  They retraced their footsteps to the house then gasped with pleasure at the caged canary Stephen presented to Araminta with a flourish.

  “Does it have a name?” asked Hetty.

  “A very grand name,” said Stephen. “Lady Zena, in fact. She belonged to my aunt who had to give her away after she took up residence with her daughter who couldn’t abide Lady Zena’s singing.”

  “Lady Zena sings?” Hetty’s plump face flushed with pleasure.

  “Not only that but she’ll sit obediently on your wrist and eat breadcrumbs from your hand.”

  “Really?” Hetty’s girlish squeal made Stephen gratified in a way he was quite unused to. Genuine girlish enthusiasm was refreshing, he was surprised to find—but Miss Araminta’s scorching black gaze above Hetty’s head as the younger sister fiddled with the latch of the birdcage promised so much more.

  It was not hard to interpret her meaning. Had she really picked him out?

  Heat prickled his skin and he licked his lips. Fixing his attention upon the tiny mole to the right of her mouth, he imagined running his tongue over the contours of her satin-smooth skin. Miss Araminta loved her home and she clearly was not immune to the charms of the newly summoned heir.

  If she had picked him out, he could think of a lot worse ways to spend his future than leg-shackled to such a diamond of the first water.

  “Oh!” Hetty’s shriek punctuated his appreciation of the lovely Araminta, who was returning his look with transparent interest. “The bird! Oh no, she’s flown away!”

  Hetty leapt to her feet, her mouth open with dismay as they all watched the canary alight upon the ivy-clad windowsill of one of the upper casements. It tilted its little head jauntily and immediately broke into song.

  “Careless girl, Hetty!” snapped Araminta. “She’ll make a tasty meal for the nighthawks, won’t she?”

  Her sister began to cry, great, gulping sobs that made her face red and blotchy. “She’ll come to me. Don’t cry, Cousin Hetty,” Stephen assured her, assessing the

  distance to the first floor. Grasping the thick ivy, he found a firm foothold and hauled himself up.

  “Oh no, Cousin Stephen, you’ll hurt yourself.”

  The fact Hetty was more afraid for his safety than the loss of the canary, which just minutes before had been the greatest tragedy, determined him. He would get the bird back.

  Stephen was fit and agile. He’d climbed the Andes like a goat and sailed through the Strait of Gibraltar without even casting up his accounts, so hoisting himself onto a sturdy ivy root, reaching for a secure piece of trellis and hauling himself
up one story was no major feat.

  “Ooh, careful!” The gasps of both young ladies was balm to his youthful ego. “Come, my pretty. Come, Lady Zena.” Carefully, he extended his hand toward the

  bird.

  After some contemplation, the little bird decided to make him work for his reward. When she hopped onto the sill of the farthest casement windows, Stephen had no choice but to follow.

  This involved a heroic full-body thrust followed by a hasty snatch at the stone ledge. With heart hammering and very conscious of his audience below, Stephen hauled himself across the wall, securing one foot on the buttress. Victory was in sight. Lady Zena hadn’t moved position for some minutes and soon he’d pop her onto his shoulder and descend to the rapturous cries of the young ladies. It would be a just recompense for what, he realized looking down, was a rather risky ascent after all.

  Eyeballing the canary, he whistled softly. She hopped daintily toward him then hopped backward. Clearly she was enjoying the game.

  Stephen growled, hoping this dance of seduction was not going to become prolonged.

  It was only the merest flash of something in his peripheral vision that made him turn his head slightly to the right. There was certainly no intent to peep through the misted windows. Yet the shock of seeing a shapely pair of thighs connected to a round, ripe naked bottom as its owner bent down to pick up one stocking was completely unexpected. He didn’t pause to consider that due to the high risk of discovery he should hasten away. He was riveted to the spot, wondering what else the lovely creature had to offer in the way of fleshly delights.

  Tingling with excitement, Stephen squinted. He could see a bathtub to the rear of the room and realized she’d just risen from it, for steam swirled in eddies that partially obscured her until she discarded the linen she’d been using to dry herself.

  The young ladies below called to him but he was rooted to the spot, desperate to see what more this as-yet-unintroduced female had in the way of sensuous charms.

  He couldn’t make out her face, but her light hair rippled to below her waist and her pale limbs, the color of whipped cream, were well turned. He tried to gauge her age for she walked with calm, fluid movements, like one who has grown used to her body without realizing how lovely it is.