She walked out of the church on her husband's arm, her veil thrown back, hearing the shouted congratulations of the estate and village folk, knowing them to be genuine. They were happy to have a Belmont in the manor… even a Belmont now called Gilbraith.
They walked back to the manor through the village as tradition dictated, the villagers following them, children throwing wild-flowers in their path. Theo responded to the shouts of congratulations with laughing comments, calling people by their names, asking after family members who weren't in evidence.
Sylvester was content to smile and wave, presenting a genial, friendly appearance, leaving the personal touch to his wife. Satisfaction bubbled in his chest. He'd done it. In four weeks he'd courted and wed his passport to a complete inheritance. Against all the odds, he'd persuaded this temperamental hoyden to abandon her prejudices and take his name. Of course, fate had given him one ace in his pack – Theo's innate passion. Up to now he'd used it to his own advantage, but from now on it would be an instrument of pure pleasure for them both.
Almost as if she'd read his mind, her hand crept into his, her fingers scribbling over his palm in a gesture that somehow contrived to be wickedly suggestive. He closed his fingers tightly over hers, stilling their motion, and bent his head close to her ear.
"Patience, gypsy. All in good time."
She gave a choke of laughter and a little skip, and Sylvester grinned. For the first time since Vimiera, he felt a lightening of the spirit, a sense of pleasure in the prospect of the future.
The stranger, clad in the rough homespuns of an itinerant peddler, kept to the rear of the cheerful throng of visitors accompanying the bride and groom to the manor. His eyes and ears were everywhere as he assessed the reactions of the locals to their new lord of the manor. The cloaked and masked man who'd employed him in the Fisherman's Rest on Dock Street had given him precise instructions: He was to find an opportunity to create a little mischief for the earl – fatal mischief, if at all possible. The man had been a rum sort, swathed in his cloak and speaking through a muffler so his voice had been distorted, but his gold was good.
The stranger took a coin from his pocket and bit it to reassure himself of that fact. He glanced with a Londoner's contempt for country folk at the smiling, jovial men and women around him. Fawning fools, the lot of 'em – dependent on the goodwill of the manor for their livelihood; falling over themselves to make a traveler welcome. He'd strolled into the taproom of the Hare and Hounds, announced himself as a peddler, and no one had questioned him, even in the absence of a pack. Amazing how gullible country bumpkins could be. They'd give him all the information he wanted and not even know they were doing it.
Tampering with the earl's saddle had been as easy as taking cake from a baby: a little chat with the stable lads, a stroll round the tack room, identifying the fine-tooled leather saddle with its embossed design around the pommel. And then five minutes with a hammer and a handful of tacks in the early hours of the morning in the unguarded stable block. It was a damn shame such a neat plan hadn't had the desired results. But there were all kinds of accidents that could befall a man interested in the sporting pursuits favored by the gentry.
He followed the crowd up the driveway to the gravel sweep in front of the house. The bride and groom turned on the step to wave at the cheering peasantry before disappearing through the garlanded oak door. The throng immediately surged toward the back of the house, the soi-disant peddler in their midst. In the kitchen courtyard tables groaned under the weight of pies and puddings, hams and barons of beef, and kegs of ale were ranged against the orchard wall. The manor clearly knew what its tenants expected on these occasions, the stranger reflected, holding a tankard beneath the foaming tap of the keg. Such bounty would be hard to come by in the city.
He drank deeply and looked around. No one was questioning his right to partake of this bounty. Fools. He could work the crowd and pick every pocket, and they'd never suspect. But he was being paid too well to do something else for it to be sensible to muddle things up. He strolled casually out of the yard. This would be a good opportunity to explore further. No one would take any notice of an inebriated wedding guest wandering the grounds.
In the long gallery the small group of friends and family were gathered with more restrained exuberance than the villagers in the kitchen courtyard. Lady Gilbraith, her daughter in tow, made the rounds of the guests with all the assurance of a hostess dispensing the hospitality of her own house. The Gilbraiths had come into their rightful inheritance, and everyone should know it. Elinor's old friends regarded this assumption of authority with puzzled disgust, but Elinor herself struggled to appear untroubled by it. Her daughters, however, all noticed the tautness to their mother's mouth, the unusual stiffness of her posture as she moved around, discreetly seeing to the comfort of her guests as they reeled from the onslaught of Lady Gilbraith.
Theo left Sylvester's side at the door when it seemed that everyone had arrived from the church, and went to join her mother. Elinor turned smiling as her daughter's hand slipped beneath her arm. She opened her mouth to say something, but the words were stillborn as Lady Gilbraith's voice rasped from a group standing beside one of the long windows.
"Stoneridge is a most generous man. Such a delicate gesture to marry one of those poor girls… no fortune among them. A sacrifice, of course. He could expect no dowry, but it's so like him to think only of doing the right thing."
"Indeed, Lady Gilbraith." Elinor's cold tones broke into the stunned silence. "I don't consider marrying one of my daughters to be a sacrifice for anyone… not even Lord Stoneridge."
Theo felt the blood drain from her cheeks and flood back again in a scarlet tide of rage. Her eyes searched out the earl. He was deep in conversation with Edward's father and Squire Greenham, his head courteously bent toward the shorter men. He took a glass of champagne from a tray passed by a footman, and the muscles in his back rippled beneath the gray silk of his coat. But for once Theo was unaware of his physique as she made her way across the room, pushing past people with too much haste for strict courtesy.
"Stoneridge?" She plucked at his sleeve.
He looked down at her, a smile on his lips that died as he took in her expression. The blue eyes flared like bonfires against a midnight sky, and he could feel her anger as an almost palpable current flowing from her.
With a word of excuse to his companions, he moved aside, ushering Theo into a secluded corner.
"What's happened to put you in such a temper, gypsy?"
Theo shook her head impatiently. "You have not given me a wedding present."
"Not yet," he agreed, clear puzzlement in his voice and eyes.
"Then I am claiming it now," she said in a fierce undertone. "I wish to speak my mind to your mother. But I thought I would tell you first, since we have some sort of a contract on the subject."
"Is that what you call it?" Sylvester said with a dry smile, not yet appreciating the seriousness of the issue. He glanced across the room toward his mother. "So what's all this about?"
Theo told him what Lady Gilbraith had said. "I don't mind, for myself," she said in the same fierce tone. "But she embarrassed Mama and forced her to be rude to a guest, which she hates to do, so I am going to tell her ladyship exactly what I think of her."
Sylvester closed his eyes on a surge of anger that was directed as much at himself as at his mother. Only he knew how hideously far from the truth she was. If anyone had been generous in this marriage, albeit unwittingly, it was Theo.
He turned from her, saying curtly, "This is for me to deal with, not you."