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    Sybill
    Sybill
    Sybill
    Ebook526 pages8 hours

    Sybill

    By Jo Ann Ferguson

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    About this ebook

    A young woman banished from the splendor of Elizabethan society is swept into dangerous passions and hidden agendas at a powerful nobleman’s estate in the first novel of Jo Ann Ferguson’s spellbinding Foxbridge Legacy series

    Disgraced and penniless after her father’s death, Sybill Hampton leaves London for the wild northwest coast to become the ward of a man she barely knows. When she arrives at Foxbridge Cloister, it isn’t her guardian who greets her, but a darkly handsome stranger who infuriates her with his assumption that she is a fortune hunter.
     
    The enigmatic overseer of the isolated estate, Trevor Breton, shares an uneasy relationship with his employer, the mercurial Owen Wythe, Lord Foxbridge, and a tantalizing one with Sybill, who at her guardian’s request takes over the housekeeping duties. Sybill begins to fall under Trevor’s seductive spell, unaware that a plan is being set in motion—a cunningly orchestrated scheme that may force her to wed one man while losing her heart to another.

    Sybill is the 1st book in the Foxbridge Legacy, but you may enjoy reading the series in any order.
     
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Media
    Release dateDec 9, 2014
    ISBN9781453248447
    Sybill
    Author

    Jo Ann Ferguson

    Jo Ann Ferguson is a lifelong storyteller and the author of numerous romantic novels. She also writes as Jo Ann Brown and Mary Jo Kim. A former US Army officer, she has served as the president of the national board of the Romance Writers of America and taught creative writing at Brown University. She currently lives in Nevada with her family, which includes one very spoiled cat.

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    • 5/5
      My two-year-old grandson totally loves this book and asks me to read it over and over.

    Book preview

    Sybill - Jo Ann Ferguson

    Think?

    Chapter One

    Sybill! Sybill Hampton!

    The young woman sitting on a rock by a small brook half frozen by the unseasonably cold weather glanced over her shoulder. Trying to ignore the shrill voice, she put her gloved hands over her ears. The motion loosened the dark hat perched at an angle on her ebony curls. As she grasped to keep it from rolling down the bank into the creek, the bushes in front of her parted.

    Her blue eyes looked steadily at the sheepish face of the man clambering through the hedgerow. Tartly, she demanded, What did Kate do to convince you to seek through the underbrush for me? I can hear that screech of hers from miles away. If I had wanted to answer her, I would have.

    She picked up a small pebble and tossed it at the creamy white wafer of ice. The sound of its cracking was sharp in the wintry air that was persisting into the normal months of spring. That this horrible weather existed in the north should not have surprised her. Everything was disgusting in this heathen wilderness. A wave of homesickness left her adrift as she thought of her warm fire in London.

    The man grinned, his elderly face wrinkling more as his lips turned up in his habitual expression of good spirits. Miss Sybill never attempted to hold her tongue with the ones she trusted. Even tragedy had not dulled her razor wit.

    Now, Miss Sybill, you know Kate worries about you. With your father gone and all—

    By all the saints! Sybill rose and brushed off her beaver hat. The fur was filthy with bits of leaves. Without looking at the man, she said softly, Excuse me, Wilson. I didn’t mean to take out my anger on you. It is just …

    When she did not continue, he said nothing. It had not been two weeks since the reading of Alfred Hampton’s will. From the time of the funeral less than a month ago, the young woman had been harried by creditors she had not known her father owed. Through it all, she had remained strong. She had not winced even when the pompous barrister informed her that the house had been sold to settle her father’s debts and she had less than a fortnight to vacate what had been her home all her life.

    Her desperate letters to her father’s friends brought no answers. Now that the last of the Hampton family was penniless and shamed, nobody among those who once had been guests at the fine home wanted to offer sanctuary to a homeless maiden. If it had not been for the missive from Lord Foxbridge …

    Sybill pushed past her driver to go to the wagon, interrupting his thoughts. As thorns caught on the silk of her gown, she knew Kate would reprimand her for her thoughtless action. She did not care what Kate had to say. The opinions of her personal maid did not matter when she was being sentenced to living at the far edges of civilization with the one friend of her father who remembered her after Alfred Hampton’s death.

    More than once she asked herself why it had to be Lord Foxbridge who came to her aid. If it could have been Countess Grewley or the Viscountess … any of her father’s friends, but this one who invited her to come to his home on the northwest coast of England. Only the barbaric highlands of Scotland were farther from London than this estate.

    She had delayed as long as possible. Even when threatened with eviction, she had pretended to be busy making arrangements to go to Foxbridge. Instead she had been praying for a miracle.

    She thought Lady Beamus would offer her a home. At the last minute, the woman sent a message via a stolid servant that Sybill Hampton would not be welcome at Beamus Court. No explanation. No apology. Nothing.

    As she climbed the hillside, she recalled the few offers she had received. Several young men called before her father’s body was cold in his pauper’s grave. What they said had shocked her deeply. The first made no secret he wanted her as his mistress. When she refused and had the butler throw him into the street, she had seen his expression of astonishment.

    One after another, the parade of eager courtiers came to ask her the same question, some more subtly than others. She wondered what caused them to think she would be interested in such an arrangement. She was the well brought up daughter of a father received at Queen Elizabeth’s court. Her values had not changed simply because she was penniless.

    Where were you hiding, Miss Sybill? came the demand that cut through her reverie.

    Sybill sighed deeply. She did not feel like being scolded by Kate. I wanted fresh air and a chance to think.

    The plump woman stuck her gloved hand over the side of the wagon. Wagging it at her young charge, she stated, You think too much! Too much about the wrong things! Here we are in the middle of this moor, and you wander off when we could be warm in Foxbridge.

    Thank you, Sybill said automatically as Wilson aided her into the vehicle. As she settled her gown on the seat they had rigged in the back, she pulled her cape tighter. The air was more damp than cold, and she wondered if this was what they would have to suffer so close to the sea.

    She looked at her maid’s rage. Kate considered herself more than an employee. Through the whole disgraceful series of events surrounding Alfred Hampton’s death, the woman remained steadfastly at Sybill’s side. Of all the servants who lived in the fashionable house along the Strand, only these two were left to her. Even Wilson would be gone when they reached their destination. With her recommendation, he had found a position with one of her admirers who had wanted to find her a place in his country home as well.

    Kate relented when she saw Miss Sybill was in no mood to argue. Tucking her graying hair under her cap, she brushed imaginary dust from her black cape. Like the younger woman, she was dressed totally in ebony and dark purple. Unlike Miss Sybill, she was hypocritical for wearing mourning for Alfred Hampton. Kate could not be sorry he was dead.

    With her eyes on the unchanging scene of the countryside, which seemed as lifeless as her father, Sybill twisted her fingers in the cord tied to her waist. The nervous motion was becoming habitual. Once she lived in a house where the finest of the queen’s court came for entertainment, talk, or cards. That would be her life no more. She was condemned to these wilds where she would molder away in boredom.

    When they entered a small settlement where a handful of houses huddled together against the strong winds from the sea, she knew they had only a few miles to go to the place that would be her home. From the directions sent by Lord Foxbridge, she knew this was the village called Foxbridge. The Cloister was not far.

    The scent of the sea became stronger. Any sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs hidden by windbreaks of tall trees was lost beneath the clatter of the wheels on the frozen road. Sybill closed her eyes and wished herself anywhere else.

    Miss Sybill, stay awake, came Kate’s voice. We are nearly there.

    She bit back her annoyance. I’m aware of that. I’m not falling asleep, although after this trip, I am exhausted.

    Thank the Lord, we had the use of this wagon. Even if it got mired a dozen times a day, it would have been intolerable to make this journey on horseback.

    Yes, she answered slowly.

    Her fingers touched the rough wood of the seat beneath her. Like everything the Hamptons had owned, except for Sybill’s personal belongings and a few jewels she had hidden from the avarice of the creditors, this vehicle would be sold to settle debts. If it did not pay the debts completely, they would have to chase her to Foxbridge Cloister to collect. How she would pay, she had no idea, but she was not going to concern herself with that today. She had no idea who her father’s creditors were. The barrister had refused to tell her, stating icily they did not wish to be bothered by the pleas of a desperate woman.

    Sybill’s mouth tightened. No one had to worry about her going on bended knee to beg for clemency. Whatever else she had lost in the horror of her father’s death, she retained the Hampton pride as her shield against the world.

    The wagon rolled to a stop before the walls of the country home. She listened as Wilson told the gatekeeper the identity of those arriving at Foxbridge Cloister. At last they were here. She feared there would be no escape.

    The gates were swung open on hinges kept in perfect order. As they turned along the road, Sybill was treated to a splendid view of her new home. Even deep in her misery, the magnificence of the house awed her.

    Bits of the day’s last light were eye-achingly bright on the tall windows. All the way to the third floor, there was a multitude of glass. This was nothing like the houses in London where small windows allowed for privacy. Here there was no need to worry about passersby. The house stood all alone on the edges of the marshes.

    A century before, Foxbridge Cloister had been a monastery. When Good King Hal dissolved the houses of the church and took the property for his own, he had made money for his gold starved coffers by selling it to loyal followers. Sybill recalled her father telling her that the father of the present Lord Foxbridge had been able to buy this estate to match his title. That peerage had been granted for loyal service when Henry Tudor assumed his throne after the end of the War of the Roses over two centuries ago.

    The old parts of the original building were easily distinguishable from the new construction. The recent additions of light gray stone had not been weathered by the sea breezes blowing unceasingly across the salt marshes.

    What a fine house! gushed Kate. Just like I imagined it would be.

    Sybill’s frown deepened. Trust Kate to see only the exterior and not think of the life they would live behind the stone walls. She did not want to be someone’s poverty-stricken ward.

    Ward!

    She detested the word and the very idea she had to rely on someone to take care of her. A man she barely knew would control her life from this point forward. More than any parent, Lord Foxbridge would rule her. Never could she quibble with his most menial command, for, like a slave, she depended on him for her food and shelter.

    With a shiver, she rubbed her gloved hands together. From the time the letter arrived from this far-off estate, she had experienced an overwhelming sense of dread. She had never had a prescience like this one. Even as she read the note, she knew it was an invitation to disaster. If she had had any other choice, she would have refused Lord Foxbridge’s offer. She did not want to live out in the wilds with a man older than her father.

    The fear she felt roiling within her like a pot left too long over the heat did not show as she stepped from the wagon. She faced a staircase that led to the front door of the house. In comparison with the elaborate design of stained glass and diamond-shaped mullions in the windows, the door, with its simple, raised panels, was extremely plain.

    She did not turn to see if Kate managed to get down. The door of the Cloister opened, and a man in pale green livery emerged. In the latest style of London, he wore his sleeves slashed to show the fine linen beneath the velvet. His breeches were tapered to fit into the top of his stockings of pale cream.

    Miss Hampton?

    I am Sybill Hampton, she answered wearily. Now that she had arrived, she felt too fatigued to go through the process of greeting her host.

    He bowed his head. His light brown hair seemed to take life from the setting sun. Welcome to Foxbridge Cloister, Miss Hampton. We have been anxious for your arrival. I am Marshall, Lord Foxbridge’s butler. Please come into the house. I fear we shall have rain soon.

    You may be correct. She had no interest in the weather, but she knew he was hoping to make her feel more comfortable in this strange house. Nothing would do that.

    Lifting her full, black skirt and the dull petticoats beneath it, Sybill followed him up the steep stairs. When he offered to take her cape, she untied it. He asked her to wait in the drawing room while he announced her arrival. Nodding, Sybill went into the room he indicated. She was glad he closed the doors behind her, for her gasp of astonishment would have been embarrassing.

    This was no primitive, country hideaway. The furniture was of the finest design and construction. Beneath her feet was the richness of a pale green carpet. Her eyes rose to see the pattern of plaster emblems on the ceiling. The one in the center of the huge expanse matched one carved into the oak mantel of the fireplace. She guessed it was the Foxbridge family crest.

    Going to the hearth, she held out her hands to the warmth. They were stiff from the cold ride, which had commenced before dawn. She looked at the painting above her. It was of a woman dressed in the style of two decades before. She was a striking woman, although not classically beautiful. Her nose was too long and her eyes a bit too feline. The smile on her lips suggested secrets she would not reveal.

    Sybill recalled Lord Foxbridge was a widower. This may have been his wife. Searching her memory, she tried to think of what her father might have said about children. She could remember nothing. Her father had had little interest in his friends’ domestic arrangements. His conversation had consisted primarily of the gossip of the court.

    Noise came from beyond the door. She listened as Kate talked to the butler. From the time the invitation arrived, her maid had been enthusiastic. Why, Sybill could not guess.

    When she saw the latch lift, she pasted a false smile on her lips. Her fingers played nervously with the cord at her waist. Realizing what she was doing, she dropped it. She must not show how upset she was by the changes in her life.

    Miss Hampton? asked a strange man as he entered the room. Welcome to Foxbridge Cloister.

    Despite herself, she stared at him. This was not Lord Foxbridge. The man was decades younger than the lord. She wondered if he was a son. His clothes were of finer quality than those the butler wore and of a vibrant blue.

    From the polite smile framed by his neatly trimmed beard and mustache, her eyes rose to his. They were the darkest eyes she had ever seen and were filled with an expression she had learned to recognize and despise.

    It was pity.

    Rage filled her. She had not grown accustomed to pity from those who had no intention of speaking to her again as an equal. When the men acted as if they were doing her a favor by asking her to be their mistress, she discovered she was an outcast from the society which once welcomed her. From a stranger, it was even more degrading to be shown that everyone knew she was begging for the roof over her head.

    When she did not reply, he walked toward where she stood. As she remained stubbornly silent, his ebony eyebrows twitched with what she feared was amusement. She had thought pity was the worst thing she could see in a man’s eyes. She had been wrong.

    Taking her fingers, he bowed over them correctly. He did not raise them to his lips. The black hair near her face was so sable it glowed in the candlelight with blue highlights.

    Miss Hampton, I am Trevor Breton, his lordship’s aide and overseer of the estate. He asked me to greet you.

    Instantly, she gasped, He is ill?

    His smile faded at her reaction. Sharply he demanded, Do you act so worried because of compassion for a man you have not met in years or because you have no place else to go but into service?

    Sybill pulled her fingers from his. Until now, as she regarded the raven fire in his eyes, she had not noticed he continued to hold her hand. She went to the hearth. Putting her hands out to the fire once more, she tried to rub some feeling back into them. Even with her back to him, she could feel his furious glare at a point directly between her shoulder blades. Why would this man react so crudely to a simple question? He was a servant. She was a guest. He had no cause to treat her like this. Perhaps if she ignored him, he would recall his place and apologize.

    Well?

    I do not think I owe you an explanation, she said turning to face him.

    She wished he was not so handsome and not dressed so well. Unlike the dandies she had seen, this man wore his breeches in a narrow style. His doublet was decorated with sedate, black trim. No ruff widened his collar, which had only a hint of lace to match that at his cuffs. From his head to the tip of his leather shoes, he was the picture of a well-favored servant.

    No? he asked in a more conversational tone. The tightness of his lips warned her that his opinion had not changed. As he leaned on the back of one of the chairs, he regarded her steadily. Are you going to answer me?

    I have not heard an answer yet to my question. Is his lordship ailing?

    Grudgingly he replied, He isn’t as hale as he was. This late spring has proven very difficult for him.

    Have the chest pains returned?

    You know of that? He was clearly surprised.

    Sybill was not going to give him more reasons to act as if she were a leper. Even if he wished to be a boor, she would remain a lady. In a gentle voice, she said, Mr. Breton, Lord Foxbridge was my father’s friend. He corresponded with Father regularly. After his last visit three years ago, he infrequently wrote to me as well. I know his health has not been as he would have wished since he was ill during the Christmastide.

    Trevor hid his surprise from her, but was unable to do the same from himself. Not once had he suspected the packets going to the barristers in London contained letters to a young woman as pretty as this one.

    From the time he learned that Lord Foxbridge had acquired a ward whose father left her without a farthing, he suspected it would be a fortune seeker coming to Foxbridge Cloister. It would seem Lord Foxbridge had a humanitarian reason for offering his home to a woman who hardly appeared to be a waif.

    His knowledgable eyes calculated the worth of her frock. Not as fancy as the portraits he had seen of the court while on an occasional trip to the capital city, but of higher quality than those worn by the women of the west. The somber color reflected her status as the bereaved, but he wondered how much she mourned her spendthrift father.

    His gaze moved from her clothes, which flattered her slender form, to her face. Under hair nearly as dark as his own were eyes of the blue of the sea at sunrise. Despite himself, his eyes settled on her soft lips, which he was sure had welcomed those who called at the house on the Strand. He wondered how averse she would be to continuing her London life here.

    Mentally, he shook himself. They did not need a woman like Sybill Hampton in Foxbridge Cloister. Her dainty prettiness and background would insure trouble among the men of the Cloister. He must send her away.

    Pardon me? he asked when he realized she had spoken.

    She moved toward him, the fullness of her skirt swishing softly against the nap of the carpet. He had to fight his urge to either back away or close the distance between them more rapidly. Viciously he fought back both feelings. Trevor Breton was not accustomed to being attracted to a woman so strongly on such a short acquaintance. He did not want to change that precedent, especially with this woman.

    I asked if I might see Lord Foxbridge.

    Of course, Miss Hampton. He is anxious to see you.

    Motioning for Sybill to precede him, he pointed toward the staircase leading to the second floor. She did not have to look at the sternness of his face to know he did not want her in Foxbridge Cloister. A laugh bubbled within her, but she did not allow it to escape. She wondered what he would say if she told him she felt exactly the same.

    Her hands slid along the fine, oak banister. Although the additions to the original monastery had been completed less than a decade ago, the massive building appeared to have been in its setting for centuries. As she walked up the stairs, she noted the bits of art displayed in the niches along the stairwell.

    She recognized a small statue which once rested on a mantel in her house. When she had noted it missing, she had been ready to question the staff to determine what happened to the marble Eros. Her father had vetoed that plan. Now she understood why. He must have sold it in order to finance their lives in London. Not for the first time, she wondered why her father had chosen the lifestyle he had.

    At the landing, she paused as she looked out the large, circular window to see the somnolent gardens. She turned to Mr. Breton. I see the window has not arrived yet.

    He did not have to ask which window she meant. Many knew the lord had ordered a stained glass window with the family crest. Only the unease of the rumored war with Spain had made it impossible to have it delivered before the cold weather.

    His eyes were on a level with hers. The smoky line of his eyebrows came together as he saw her expression. Such innocence there was in her words. Far too much for the daughter of Alfred Hampton. He could not accuse her of perfidy when she had done nothing yet. It would be best if she did not suspect his concerns. Carefully he kept his voice calm as he stepped up next to her.

    It has arrived, Miss Hampton. As soon as spring decides to stay, we will have it set in place. He put his hand on her arm. If you please, Miss Hampton.

    She gasped and stepped away from his fingers, which had sent a bolt through her. There was no time to think of her reaction. One shoe slipped off the newly polished stone steps. With a cry, she fought for her balance.

    Strong arms captured her. She gripped them to assure herself she would not careen down the stairs to certain injury. Pressing her face close to her savior, she did not care if it was the officious Mr. Breton. Her close brush with disaster shook her to the depths of her soul.

    Miss Hampton? The anger she had seen on his face was reflected by the shortness of his demand.

    Cautiously she stepped away. It was obvious he did not want her near. Despite the coldness of his attitude, she did not move without forethought. She was careful to keep her back to the wall. Her voice trembled when she spoke. I’m fine, Mr. Breton. Thank you.

    He put his arm around her shoulders. When she started to pull away, he tightened his grip on her. Be sensible! he snapped. You nearly fell. Let me help you up the stairs. Lord Foxbridge would not be pleased if his ward arrived bruised.

    Don’t call me that! she cried at the term she hated more than anything else.

    It was a slap in the face, an insult, a reminder she could not survive without Lord Foxbridge’s charity. She ran up the stairs, away from Mr. Breton and the word that reminded her of her distressing state. When she reached the top of the few steps remaining, she did not pause, although she had no idea where she was going. She heard Mr. Breton calling for her to wait. Headstrong, in the manner which had earned her too many reprimands, she did not listen.

    Her eyes scanned the doors, but all were closed. No signs suggested what might lie beyond them. She did not care. She wanted nothing to do with Foxbridge Cloister. She wanted to go home where strangers presided over her table and slept in her bed.

    A door opened nearly in her face. With a gasp, she took a step backward and collided with Mr. Breton, who had been pursuing her. His arms encircled her waist as he kept her from falling once more. When he determined she was steady, he released her immediately. The estate manager did not want to touch her any longer than necessary. It was another opinion she shared with him.

    Sybill! My child, how wonderful to see you at last!

    Lord Foxbridge held out his arms. For a moment, she looked at the tall man who had not been stripped of his dignity by his years. The gold of his hair was interlaced with gray, but his face had gained distinction along with wrinkles. His pale blue eyes squinted at her myopically, in the manner she remembered so well.

    Before she quite knew what she was doing, she flung herself into his arms and was sobbing against the quilted satin of his dressing robe. His fingers, rubbing her back, were gnarled by years of riding across the windy moors while overseeing the tenant farms owned by the Cloister. She wept for something that had died within her. Perhaps seeing him had shown her like nothing else that her adoring, rakehell father was gone. She could no longer pretend it was another of the elaborate jokes Alfred Hampton enjoyed playing on his daughter. Her father was dead.

    Hush, child. Do not cry so harshly. He looked over her head to see the astonishment on his assistant’s face and was surprised by Trevor’s reaction. He had thought Trevor would be impressed favorably by pretty Sybill Hampton. She had grown from a charming child to a lovely woman. He guessed she was past nineteen, certainly well aware of her attractiveness to men. Instead of admiring her, Trevor acted as if she was infected with the plague.

    Quietly, Lord Foxbridge ordered, Come in, Sybill. Trevor, will you bring a bottle of wine from the library? Miss Hampton needs something to calm herself after her harrowing times.

    The door closed in the face of the other man. It was just as well, for Trevor was unsure if he could have hidden his rage. The lord’s words told him quite clearly what this woman’s place was to be.

    Miss Hampton!

    As if the daughter of that man deserved such courtesy. His lips tightened into a straight line as he vowed he would do what he could to make sure she did not play the games she would have learned at her father’s knee. She could be no better than the easy women in the unsavory London borough of Southwark, but he was going to be required to act as a servant for her.

    Viciously snarling from behind his clenched teeth, he stamped to the stairs to do as his lord had requested. This was a state of affairs that would not last long. He was determined to see to that personally.

    In the sitting room of Lord Foxbridge’s private rooms, Sybill was managing to control her emotions. With a handkerchief she drew from a bag tied to her belt by the silken cord, she wiped her eyes as Lord Foxbridge continued to try to soothe her. She did not protest his awkward pats on her shoulder. In his letters, he had signed himself as your dear uncle, Owen Wythe. That was how she considered him. His touch affected her nothing like Mr. Breton’s did. Her tears dried quickly as, with rage, she recalled the estate manager’s actions. Perhaps he was a fine servant, but he had proven he was no gentleman.

    With a weak smile, she looked up into Lord Foxbridge’s concerned face. I’m fine, my lord. Forgive me for being so weepy. It hasn’t been easy since Father died.

    I understand, he said, although he had no idea if she spoke of the death of her progenitor, which had been lamented by so few publicly, or the financial troubles that always had plagued Alfred Hampton. You are safe here, child. No one can hurt you again.

    Thank you. Her gaze went around the room. She noted the heavy furniture made in the latest style. Although there never was much gold in the Hampton household, her father had been sure all they possessed was of the highest quality. Until his shocking death, she had not questioned how it was paid for when there was little money to buy from the food peddlers in the street. Lord Foxbridge, I must tell you I appreciate you opening your home to a stranger.

    He chuckled as he sat in a chair covered with light green velvet. Stranger? You are hardly that, my dear child. After all the wonderful letters you have written to me in the past year.

    All? There were only two or three, she corrected. She tried to recall what she had said which would make him think he knew her. Little in the stilted missives reflected the true Sybill Hampton.

    I enjoyed them and reread them so often, it seems impossible there could be that few. He waved aside the topic. It does not matter, for you are here now. My guest as I have been your guest in the past.

    Her answer was halted by the door opening. Although her smile faded, she could not keep her eyes from savoring the handsomeness of Trevor Breton. From his position in Lord Foxbridge’s household, it would seem his intelligence matched his outward appearance. If he had not been so uncourtly, she would not have minded having a friend like Mr. Breton to keep her mind from becoming dull in this wasteland. Her greatest enjoyment had been the spirited, witty conversation at her father’s table. She wondered if she would find any like that in this wilderness. When he looked in her direction, she lowered her eyes. The moment their eyes met, she had seen his revulsion.

    Iciness filled his voice, as he said, As you requested, m’lord. Here is the wine. Do you wish me to pour?

    Lord Foxbridge asked, clearly baffled, Is there a problem, Trevor?

    None that I know of, m’lord.

    Very well. Pour three glasses and join us. I know you will want to have a chance to become better acquainted with Foxbridge’s newest lady.

    The wine splashed onto the linen tablecloth. Trevor looked up in dismay, but the lord and his pretty, young guest were talking as if nothing was wrong. Perhaps that was the way they saw it. Especially Sybill Hampton. Nothing could be wrong for her if the lord was set to announce she would become the lady of Foxbridge Cloister.

    As he dropped a damp cloth over the stain, he asked himself why he should be so surprised. Before the woman arrived, he had overheard talk among the servants about why Lord Foxbridge would invite Sybill Hampton here. No one could be unaware of what her father had been, and there was a great deal of snickering behind hands.

    More cautiously he finished filling three goblets with the blood red wine. With Lord Foxbridge’s son determined to drain every coin from the estate to waste in the brothels and playhouses of London, they had no need for another of the same type. Lord Foxbridge was not making any effort to hide his enchantment with her, so it would be Trevor’s job to rid Foxbridge Cloister of her.

    Loathing the circumstances which forced him to be polite, he held out a goblet to Sybill. Miss Hampton?

    Thank you, Mr. Breton. She was careful her fingers did not brush his. If she touched him again, she did not know what the result would be.

    Lord Foxbridge chuckled. How formal you are! Sybill, you must feel free to call my aide by his Christian name. You don’t mind, do you, Trevor?

    Of course not. He smiled, but his skin felt as if it was being stretched too tightly. The insult was clear. He was to allow her to use his given name, but the compliment was not to be returned. Never in his years at the Cloister had he been reminded in this manner of his yeoman status.

    Sybill noted his reaction to Lord Foxbridge’s unthinking words. Trevor Breton did not seem like a man who would take such treatment lightly. For her, she was increasingly sure he was dangerous. She took a sip of the rich-bodied wine while she watched him retrieve the other two glasses. The men were conversing, so she did not think either noticed her perusal of the man who fascinated and frightened her.

    As he accepted his glass, Lord Foxbridge said, I think it might be a good idea if you show Miss Hampton around the estate and village, Trevor. You will find she rides well.

    Black eyes settled on her. Is that so? Do you think you can handle the uneven paths around the Cloister?

    I will manage.

    She has ridden with her father and me when we went hawking, Trevor. She will do well. Lord Foxbridge smiled into his goblet. The antagonism already developing between his guest and his trusted assistant was entertaining. Although it was not what he had expected when these two met, he did not doubt all would work out fine in the end.

    As he listened to their stilted conversation, he sipped on his wine. Yes, it would all work out fine in the end.

    Chapter Two

    Sybill stared at the bed canopy. Her warm nest was tinted with golden light from the morning sun filtering through the bed curtains. Drawing the bedcovers closer to her chin, she sighed.

    More than ever, she was sure it was a mistake to be at Foxbridge Cloister. Not that Lord Foxbridge was not as kind as she recalled him. He seemed the perfect host. Charming and generous. Instead of the spartan room she expected would be her lot, he had insisted she use this lovely suite. In addition to the bedroom, which dwarfed the one she had in London, there was a private chamber for Kate and a sitting room with its own hearth. Like the other rooms, it was decorated with new furniture which the lord had purchased to fill the massive addition to the original cloister.

    She could have no complaints about the lord. It was his servant who concerned her. With a groan, she buried her face in her pillow. Trevor Breton hated her. He made no effort to hide that. Why he should despise her, she did not know, but she could guess.

    Lord Foxbridge was not young. In his letters, he had not dissembled about his deteriorating health. Under those circumstances, he would have to depend on his estate manager. By the way the servants deferred to Mr. Breton, she could tell he ran the estate single-handedly. Although he would give his orders in Lord Foxbridge’s name, an aura of power surrounded Mr. Breton.

    And he hated her because he feared her. He suspected she would be able to see the truth and would report to someone how much authority he had gained. Let him try to oust her from her only home, and she would resort to such tactics.

    Sybill gasped at her own hateful thoughts. Sweeping aside the bed curtains so forcefully that the rings holding them to the railing near the top of the canopy jangled, she climbed down the steps from the high bed. She went to the mirror at the dressing table to determine if she had changed during the night.

    Although her features were unaltered, the gentle Sybill who had trusted life to treat her well had died with her father. Harshly she had been taught how little others cared for her, and she forced herself to harden her heart to worry as little about others. It was not easy, because she always was the caring one. Time after time, Kate had scolded her for giving pennies to street urchins. She had no more coins to offer anyone. All she possessed was this invitation to live at Foxbridge Cloister. She was not going to let anyone wrench it from her until she could decide what she would do. If Trevor Breton tried to have her evicted from Foxbridge Cloister, she would fight him with every weapon she could devise. Her most powerful one was the lord himself.

    Good morning.

    She spun to see Kate entering. It was useless to remonstrate with her maid. In the nearly three years she had worked for the Hamptons, Sybill had never been able to convince her to knock.

    Good morning, she answered shortly.

    Grumpy this morning? Her own voice was cheerful. A message just came. The lord would like you to have breakfast with him.

    Breakfast?

    The morning meal was not one for socializing. She never would have thought of asking a guest or even a member of the family to share the meal with her. Only on rare occasions had she seen her father before midday. That practice was not confined only to the Hampton household, where the entertainments often went until dawn. Many families served breakfast in the privacy of each member’s bedroom.

    The maid laughed as she walked to the cupboard where Miss Sybill’s clothes were stored. This isn’t London.

    I think I have noticed that! she snapped. She rubbed her forehead. Pardon me, Kate. I have an aching head.

    Nothing could affect Kate’s bright spirits. She hummed as she helped Sybill dress. Like everything the young woman wore, the gown was a tired black. Slipping it over her chemise, she stood quietly while Kate hooked up the back. She smoothed the wrinkles from the plain skirt which flowed to pool on the floor. Adjusting the bodice which laced with crisscrossed ties, she thanked Kate absently for her help.

    Brushing her hair did not help her mood. She had been so disgruntled, she had forgotten to braid it before bed. Now the tangles were bunched from the back of her neck to its ends near her waist. Although many women wore their hair short, her father had insisted that she not cut her dark strands.

    She bit back an oath which would earn her a reprimand from Kate. Finally she convinced her hair to behave and rolled it into the thick bun she wore at her nape.

    If you are ready, Miss Sybill, I can take you down to the room where Lord Foxbridge has breakfast served.

    You know where it is? she asked, puzzled.

    The coarse sound like a handsaw on a log was Kate’s version of a laugh. I have not been lying in bed late. A servant learns quickly if she wishes to keep her place.

    Lord Foxbridge didn’t mention he would ask you to leave.

    Kate chuckled again. No, I didn’t expect he would.

    What’s that supposed to mean?

    Miss Sybill, he wouldn’t deny you your maid. Look at these lovely rooms. He will be very generous to you.

    Sybill frowned at her maid’s satisfied expression. Kate was acting strangely, glancing around the blue room with its pale furniture as if it was her own possession. Angrily, she told herself to stop being so imaginative. Of course, Kate was happy. They had a home.

    While they went down the stairs and toward the back of the house, Kate chattered uncharacteristically about the beauty of Foxbridge Cloister. Sybill stared at her in disbelief. This voluble woman was unlike the one who worked for her in London. She had never seen her so happy. Kate normally enjoyed grousing about every detail of their lives, especially if Alfred Hampton was involved.

    Sybill’s eyes widened. Her maid had put her mourning away. Today the round woman wore a brilliant red gown, which made her resemble a ripe apple. Regretfully, she told herself that one of them was pleased with their new life. In her morose opinion, nothing but trouble waited for her here.

    Sunshine leapt through long windows to brighten the dining room. Kate dipped in a quick curtsy, her knees creaking loudly.

    The lord dismissed her absently. He turned to the young woman who was staring about in awe. What a pretty child she was! It was a shame she must wear rusty black, but it was proper she should show respect for her father. When she stood in the large room, looking so lost, she appeared as she had the first time he saw her. She had been no more than six or seven. He had been surprised to learn Alfred Hampton had a daughter. Sybill’s existence had been kept a secret for most of her childhood, for she would have been a difficulty for her father’s business enterprises.

    Sybill felt the lord’s eyes and paused in her inspection of the room. It was as lovely as the other parts of the Cloister she had seen. The furniture shone with attentive care, and the pewter on the sideboard was stacked neatly.

    Remembering her place, she knelt. Good morning, my lord.

    No, Sybill!

    At the sharpness in his voice, she glanced up, perplexed. Excuse me?

    Two rules will exist in my house. One is that I do not want to see such high protocol again. You need not curtsy to me. The other is that I wish you to call me ‘Owen.’

    Sir?

    He came to where she stood. Taking her fingers, he led her to the head of the table. He pulled out a chair and seated her with a grace which she knew took years to cultivate. This is your home, my child. Such formality is fine for court, but here we act as family. He sat in his own chair and rang for the servants. I trust that will be agreeable with you.

    Yes, my I— She smiled as he began to protest. Yes, Owen.

    Much better. His smile wiped years from his face, giving hint of the handsome man he had been. Now, tell me. How did you sleep?

    The conversation continued in the same light manner while breakfast was served. The hearty meal filled her stomach, but nothing could ease the emptiness within her. When Owen spoke of her father, her eyes blurred. His death had been so sudden. She wondered if she would ever be able to accept it. She was happier when her host spoke of the Cloister

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