"A wise decision," Vaughn granted. "If you persist in going forward with the plan, I suggest you set one of your entourage to the task. Dorrington, for one, appears in need of occupation."
Jane gave a slight shake of her head. "Unlike Dorrington, you have something Miss Alsworthy wants."
Jane didn't need to specify. Her meaning was horrifyingly clear. Vaughn could feel the parson's noose dangling just shy of his neck.
"Which," replied Vaughn pointedly, just in case Jane had forgotten certain crucial facts, "she is not going to get."
"No," agreed Jane. "And yet…"
Vaughn polished the lens of his quizzing glass, squinted critically at it, and swiped at an invisible blemish. "Yet, my dear Miss Wooliston, is a treacherous jade. She'll lead you astray if you let her."
"Yet" kept men gambling when they ought to have thrown in their cards; it outfitted expeditions for cities of gold and fountains of youth; it dulled the critical faculties with false promises, as bright and baseless as the towered palaces of an opium dreamer's paradise. Yet led one into absurd situations such as this.
Jane wagged an admonishing finger. "You have a very low opinion of conjunctions."
"Of all kinds." His brief marriage had been enough to convince him of that.
"No one is suggesting you engage in a conjunction of a permanent sort," said Jane mildly. "I'm sure we could persuade Miss Alsworthy to lend us her talents with less drastic inducements. And she would be perfect for our purposes."
"You mean, for your purposes."
Knowing well the power of judicious silence, Jane chose not to answer. She simply continued to look at him, with an expression of calm conviction designed to persuade most men that they had always agreed with her in the first place and were simply being given time to voice it. Vaughn had to admire her cheek. It was one of the few reasons he tolerated her. Her complete lack of interest in his matrimonial value was another.
So he was to lure Miss Mary Alsworthy into Jane's schemes with his title as bait, was he? The idea was almost entirely without merit.
And yet…
Ah, there she was again, that treacherous jade, that will-o'-the-wisp, that yet. Vaughn pondered the monumental boredom of Gloucestershire and decided that will-o'-the-wisps were the lesser evil. One needed to do something to enliven the stifling ennui of the human existence. And one could only beguile so many empty hours by bedeviling one's valet or seducing the serving girls.
And then there were his own purposes….
"How could I possibly deny any lady such a simple request?" With an unhurried gesture, Vaughn shook out the lace of his cuffs before adding, "Even a fool's errand is preferable to being forced into another round of hunt the slipper."
"But my dear Lord Vaughn" — Jane blinked innocently up at him — "isn't that exactly the game you have been playing?"
Mary drew her light gauze shawl more closely around her shoulders, which were beginning to show unbecoming signs of gooseflesh. The wrap, which had been perfectly adequate for London's overheated ballrooms, did very little to ward off the October chill that pervaded the Great Chamber of Sibley Court. Next to her, a twisted branch of candles did more to cast shadows than spread light. Any attempt at illumination disappeared into the depths of the dusky tapestry on the wall beside her, which appeared to depict one of the gorier episodes from the Bible. At least, Mary hoped it was biblical in origin. Otherwise, that girl really had no business holding aloft that man's severed head.
Mary might, she told herself, have endured the cold with equanimity. She might have smiled with tolerant condescension upon the antiquated furnishings and dour tapestries, graciously endured the drafty chambers, and equably accepted the lack of any local society — any local society worth knowing, that was — within twenty miles, were it not for one small problem.
Her problem sported dark blue superfine and wore his dark hair cropped close to his head. He was also walking right towards her, moving with a soft stride that seemed to swallow sound rather than create it, a shadowy presence in the dim room. He was Geoffrey, Lord Pinchingdale, Second Viscount Pinchingdale, Eighth Baron Snipe, owner of Sibley Court and all its lands and appurtenances.
Once upon a time, it had been simply Geoffrey.
Once upon a time, he hadn't been married to her sister.
Pausing in front of her, her new brother-in-law bowed briefly over her hand, their first private contact since the hot days of July, when they had met in the sunshine of Hyde Park while her maid kept lookout three trees away.
In the drizzling gloom of October, it felt a lifetime ago, like a summer flower found pressed between the pages of a book.
"Miss Alsworthy," Geoffrey said softly.
It did seem a tad formal after "beloved."
"Mary," she corrected demurely, retrieving her hand and smiling as prettily as any young girl at her first Assembly. "After all, you are my brother now."
He looked so relieved that Mary almost wished she had said something less conciliatory. She couldn't have, of course. It would have been bad ton to make a scene. Unlike her sister, she knew what was required of her. But it would have been nice to see even a touch of remorse — or, even better, of regret — rather than pure relief at being so easily released from his former bonds.
Slicing the wound wider, he said, "Letty and I were both so pleased that you were able to join us here."
What was it about married couples that always made them speak for the other person as well? Didn't he have any thoughts of his own anymore? Or was that not allowed? Letty always did have opinions enough for two.
"The pleasure is mine," Mary lied, making her eyes as limpid as nature would allow. "I have always been eager to see Sibley Court."
That struck home, at least. She could see guilt flicker across his face as the barb struck — or perhaps it was nothing more than the uneven flick of the candle flame, playing tricks with her eyes.
Well, he ought to feel guilty. He had been the one who had promised to bring her home to Sibley Court as its mistress. Over dozens of dances he had spun endless stories of the wonders of the family home: the ghost who stalked the battlements, the trees he had climbed, the scent of the ancient herb garden after a spring rain.
"Miss Alsworthy…" Mindless of the company around them, Lord Pinchingdale looked earnestly down at her, groping for words. "Mary…"
They had stood that way so often in the past, his dark head bent to hers, a private haven in the midst of a crowded room. Mary lowered her eyes against a sudden pang. Not of the heart, of course. A heart had no business engaging in practical transactions. Half the time, she reminded herself, she hadn't listened to a word he had said, mentally cataloguing the dances she had already promised and devising new ways to play off her admirers one against the other.
Call it memory, then, or nostalgia. He might have been dull, but he had still been hers. She had gotten into the habit of him.
"Mary…" His voice scraped along the back of his throat, as though he spoke only with difficulty. "I'm sorry."
Sorry, sorry, sorry. She was sick of sorry. Letty had been sorry, too. They were sorry, but she was alone. So much for sorry.
"Don't be. It all turned out for the best." If her smile was a little sour around the edges, Geoffrey didn't appear to notice. "Practically enough to make one believe in Fate." Or just very meddling relations.
"Not many would be so generous."
Any more generosity and she would choke on it. Lowering her lashes, Mary took refuge in modestly murmuring, "You are too good." That much, at least, was true. He and Letty deserved each other; they were both sickeningly virtuous. Their children would probably be born with halos already attached. "If you would excuse me? I promised Mama I would roust Papa out of the library before the supper tray is brought in."