go near him once all evening. ’Tis not like you to be so thoughtless.”
Was Vivian testing for a reaction? Did she suspect something? She was fishing very near the truth. “Did I not thank him?” Venetia said innocently, tying the ribbon closure of her chemisette and straightening the ruff at her neck. “Oh dear. I must make certain to do that—I never meant to slight him. Did he seem offended?”
“No,” Vivian answered thoughtfully. “He seemed preoccupied, although I’d say he seemed content to stay away from you.”
Venetia only paused for half a heartbeat. “Perhaps he was afraid I would need to be rescued again. Seriously, perhaps he is afraid to get close for fear we’ll discover he is the blackmailer. I wish we knew how to find out for certain. If only the servants had known something, or the note had yielded some usable clue. I wish we could discover something—anything.” She held out her arms to receive the dress.
“I wish that you would discover Lord Cranford is not the blackmailer, so we could begin to look for someone else.”
What Venetia really longed for at that moment was for Lord Cranford and the rest of the guests as well to disappear out of Rivington and her life altogether. She knew the chance of that, however. “If only we had some magic wishes,” she said. “I’d give anything for these two weeks to be over, or better yet, to have never begun.”
***
Venetia’s was not the only bad mood to be found in Rivington that morning. Gilbey, too, had spent a tormented evening and a restless night. He was certain that if even a hint of how he was feeling showed on his face, no one would dare to come near him or speak to him. He got through breakfast civilly, but now as he joined the other guests for the archery tournament, he wondered if putting a weapon into his hands would be wise. Suppose he just happened to mistake Lord Wistowe for one of the targets?
He had to admire the arrangements for the competition, despite his black mood. The range had been set up on a south-facing lawn at the far end of the walled garden, with targets at measured intervals at the bottom of the slope. Instead of the standard round targets, the figures of medieval knights in armor had been painted on canvas and attached to hay bales. Gilbey liked that—it suited his state of mind perfectly. If he wished he could even attach names to the figures; he would likely name one as Nicholas, who deserved a few shots for bringing him to Rivington in the first place. At the top of the slope a gaily striped canopy offered shade for the ladies, and bright pennants on poles fluttered in the breeze.
“Care to make a wager? Highest score, lowest score, most lost arrows, whatever you wish.” Lord Munslow’s voice penetrated Gilbey’s thoughts.
Gilbey turned around and saw Lord Chesdale gesturing at the other earl with his quizzing glass in hand. “Five pounds says you’ll lose your money no matter what you wager.” That could be nearly half a year’s pay for one of their servants, Gilbey reflected. Behind the two earls several other guests laughed.
Gilbey stepped away before they could try to include him in their wagering. Not to join in would be considered unsporting, but he hated to squander his resources. An altogether different danger was that Lady Norbridge might notice him standing alone, a fate he wished to avoid. Finding Nicholas seemed like a good idea until he saw him standing by the rack of bows waiting for the archers, with Lady Elizabeth close beside him.
“Are you skilled at archery, Lord Cranford?” Lady Caroline Sainsberry, the daughter of the Earl and Countess of Upcott, had quietly come up behind him. Gilbey rather liked Lady Caroline—although she looked fragile with her curly blond hair and porcelain skin, her conversation focused primarily on horses and sport. She was not loud and did not put on airs like the twins’ cousin Adela.
“I’m afraid not,” he said, feeling rather guilty
Was Vivian testing for a reaction? Did she suspect something? She was fishing very near the truth. “Did I not thank him?” Venetia said innocently, tying the ribbon closure of her chemisette and straightening the ruff at her neck. “Oh dear. I must make certain to do that—I never meant to slight him. Did he seem offended?”
“No,” Vivian answered thoughtfully. “He seemed preoccupied, although I’d say he seemed content to stay away from you.”
Venetia only paused for half a heartbeat. “Perhaps he was afraid I would need to be rescued again. Seriously, perhaps he is afraid to get close for fear we’ll discover he is the blackmailer. I wish we knew how to find out for certain. If only the servants had known something, or the note had yielded some usable clue. I wish we could discover something—anything.” She held out her arms to receive the dress.
“I wish that you would discover Lord Cranford is not the blackmailer, so we could begin to look for someone else.”
What Venetia really longed for at that moment was for Lord Cranford and the rest of the guests as well to disappear out of Rivington and her life altogether. She knew the chance of that, however. “If only we had some magic wishes,” she said. “I’d give anything for these two weeks to be over, or better yet, to have never begun.”
***
Venetia’s was not the only bad mood to be found in Rivington that morning. Gilbey, too, had spent a tormented evening and a restless night. He was certain that if even a hint of how he was feeling showed on his face, no one would dare to come near him or speak to him. He got through breakfast civilly, but now as he joined the other guests for the archery tournament, he wondered if putting a weapon into his hands would be wise. Suppose he just happened to mistake Lord Wistowe for one of the targets?
He had to admire the arrangements for the competition, despite his black mood. The range had been set up on a south-facing lawn at the far end of the walled garden, with targets at measured intervals at the bottom of the slope. Instead of the standard round targets, the figures of medieval knights in armor had been painted on canvas and attached to hay bales. Gilbey liked that—it suited his state of mind perfectly. If he wished he could even attach names to the figures; he would likely name one as Nicholas, who deserved a few shots for bringing him to Rivington in the first place. At the top of the slope a gaily striped canopy offered shade for the ladies, and bright pennants on poles fluttered in the breeze.
“Care to make a wager? Highest score, lowest score, most lost arrows, whatever you wish.” Lord Munslow’s voice penetrated Gilbey’s thoughts.
Gilbey turned around and saw Lord Chesdale gesturing at the other earl with his quizzing glass in hand. “Five pounds says you’ll lose your money no matter what you wager.” That could be nearly half a year’s pay for one of their servants, Gilbey reflected. Behind the two earls several other guests laughed.
Gilbey stepped away before they could try to include him in their wagering. Not to join in would be considered unsporting, but he hated to squander his resources. An altogether different danger was that Lady Norbridge might notice him standing alone, a fate he wished to avoid. Finding Nicholas seemed like a good idea until he saw him standing by the rack of bows waiting for the archers, with Lady Elizabeth close beside him.
“Are you skilled at archery, Lord Cranford?” Lady Caroline Sainsberry, the daughter of the Earl and Countess of Upcott, had quietly come up behind him. Gilbey rather liked Lady Caroline—although she looked fragile with her curly blond hair and porcelain skin, her conversation focused primarily on horses and sport. She was not loud and did not put on airs like the twins’ cousin Adela.
“I’m afraid not,” he said, feeling rather guilty
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