The Countess of Wexford picked up the necklace from where she had placed it on the desk. She would not reject the gift, however angry, however humiliated she might be. ‘You have been a disappointment to me, Joshua.’
‘I must live with it.’ The thought came into his mind that Sarah Russell would not have snatched up the necklace to take with her. Sarah Russell refused anything he offered!
‘Yes. you must. I hope that you do not live to regret it, my dear Joshua.’
She did not look at him again but left the room, leaving the door open behind her, all grace and cold fury. The diamonds had glittered, stark and blue as the coldest of ice, but never as frigid as the face and heart of Olivia Wexford.
Lord Joshua retrieved the brandy and drank. It was over. And easier than perhaps he deserved, for he and Wycliffe had made use of the woman. Her eager compliance did not make his own part in the masquerade any more comfortable. At least his injuries had given him every excuse to keep him from her bed and for that he must be grateful indeed.
Chapter Six
The contentious issue of his continuing employment of Mrs Sarah Russell was resolved in Lord Faringdon’s mind in a quite unexpected manner—indeed one of mind-shattering discovery—one sun-filled afternoon in the following week. He rode into Hanover Square a little after three o’clock. It was the first time that he attempted to get into a saddle since the disastrous and humiliating culmination of his assignment in Paris. The short ride around Hyde Park, one circuit only, had been without doubt excruciating, but it was immensely satisfying that his strength and agility were at last returning. Shoulders and ribs were already more comfortable, allowing him to stretch and turn without immediate and painful repercussions. His knee and thigh might still scream from the demands put on damaged tendons and joints, but there was room for optimism. Thank God he had at last been able to dispense with the cane.
As he rode toward the front steps of his house, his mind occupied with far from pleasant thoughts, shouts and laughter caught his attention from the garden beyond the iron railings. He drew rein. Turned his head to watch. Then simply sat and stared in amazement.
A game was in progress. Not a game that he recognised, but one which involved considerable noise and a lot of running and hiding, with a ball and a hoop. And also, it appeared, involved much enjoyment. He immediately recognised the participants and could not prevent his lips from lifting in appreciation of the scene. Most of the laughter came from John, untidy and red-faced, who whooped and shrieked as if pursued by a band of cut-throat robbers, wielding a hoop to the danger of any who might come too near. But there was his daughter, Miss Celestine Faringdon, no less, hitching up her petticoats and chasing the boy, to wrest the hoop from him with a cry of triumph. Her dark eyes sparkled and she laughed aloud. When she caught John she grasped and hugged him, planting a kiss on his cheek, which caused him to squirm and shriek even more, and his daughter howl with laughter. He had never seen his daughter so…so happy! Abandoned was perhaps the appropriate word, he thought. There was bright colour in her cheeks and stains on her skirts from where she had come to grief in the grass. Now she ran across the garden with John in noisy pursuit.
But the shock doubled, for the supervision of this madness was in the hands of one of the younger maids and Mrs Sarah Russell. And they were joining in. He found that he could not take his eyes from the solemn young woman who ordered and organised his life with intense reserve and so rarely smiled. It was a revelation indeed.
Sarah Russell was flushed. She was involved. She ran after the children, catching them, taking her own turn with hoop and ball. She laughed, completely unselfconscious, unaware of the picture she made. She is no older than a girl! he thought. She looked radiant, as if all the responsibilities and tensions of her life had been lifted for this short time. Even more, she looked exceptionally, stunningly pretty with pink cheeks and sparkling eyes. The vitality, the sheer… well, loveliness of the lady struck him a blow to his chest. His hands tightened on the reins: he could not take his eyes from her.
He would like nothing better, he realised in that one moment of recognition, than to make it possible for her to be so joyful all the time. That was how she was meant to be. If he had ever met Theodora, he would have recognised the same outgoing nature and love of life—now that Sarah had been able to forget her present burdens and her past sins. When she shrieked—then covered her mouth in youthful and delicious embarrassment—as Beth caught her skirts, he smiled. He could not resist.
She had dispensed with the lace cap and her hair had loosened from its neat arrangement, to drift in soft, fair curls around her face. Why had he not realised that she was so pretty when he saw her every day?
The game was apparently over, the players weary but ecstatic. They trooped back across the road in the direction of the house, to halt when they saw their unexpected audience. They came to stand beside him.
John put out a tentative hand to stroke as much as he could reach of the satin shoulder of the bay gelding. Beth smiled up at her father with such openness that it filled him with warmth. This was how his daughter should be. And he cursed his former neglect, however essential it had become to keep her safe in Richmond, away from Paris and its dangers, the threats attached to his own actions in the service of the Crown.
‘You are riding again, Papa.’
‘So it seems. And you are out of breath.’
‘I won.’ Beth crowed with a smug satisfaction. ‘But John is very good. I am older, of course,’ she explained in all seriousness.
‘So you are.’ Lord Faringdon’s eyes moved on to rest on Sarah, who flushed even more at being discovered in so ruffled and unseemly a state. It took much effort to resist the urge to straighten her skirts and push back a wayward curl. But she would not.
‘We had finished the lessons for the day, my lord.’ Why did she feel the need to explain her actions? She set her teeth. ‘The afternoon was so mild…’
‘There is no need to explain, Mrs Russell. I could see that the game—whatever it was—was much enjoyed—by all.’
Her colour now became a deep rose. ‘I must go in. If you will excuse me, my lord…’
‘Of course.’
Transferring the reins to one hand, he swung down from the horse in one fluid movement. And forgot the need for care—until the bright pain lanced from foot to knee to thigh, a red-hot branding. His knee had stiffened during the ride and was reluctant to bear his weight as he landed on the hard surface of the pavement. Momentarily staggering with a hiss of pain, leaning against his mount to keep his balance, he dropped his gloves and riding whip.
The reaction around him was immediate. If his jaw had not been braced against the raw agony and lack of circulation in his leg, he might have laughed at the manner in which his housekeeper and the children instantly leapt to his aid. What price a reputation as a dangerous and unprincipled rake? They came to his rescue as if he were a damsel in distress, Andromeda facing her dragon. Beth collected gloves and whip from the dust of the pavement, wiping them against her skirts. John caught the loose reins to hold the gelding steady as far as a five-year-old could as Lord Faringdon leaned his weight against it. And Sarah Russell—well, she stretched out both hands to grasp his forearms, to hold him upright with her light strength, without a moment’s hesitation.
The reaction between Joshua and Sarah with the touch of hand on arm was instantaneous and elemental. His eyes snapped to hers. She was looking at him with just such a startled expression as he knew was on his own face. It lasted only the length of a heartbeat, both caught in the net of awareness. Then he straightened. She snatched her hands away. And, to all intents, the moment had passed.
‘See how well I am looked after. And how useless I am.’ The little grooves around his mouth deepened at the self-mockery. Yet he was aware of nothing other than the memory of her hands grasping his sleeves, as if the flesh beneath were scorched by her touch.
‘You are stronger