Although he had to wait for more than an hour, eventually, he and Ennis were playing against each other, with Hadley as the third of their group. Hadley had proved a past master at taking forever to line up his shots. That left Sebastian and Ennis standing to one side of the green, watching.
Sebastian waited until they were at one end of the oval-shaped course. After taking his shot, he walked to the edge of the clipped expanse to allow Hadley to essay his. Sebastian halted alongside Ennis—who shifted as if to move away, but then, as if realizing how that would appear, settled again.
“Indeed,” Sebastian murmured, his gaze on Hadley. “I am most assuredly the last man you would want to see.”
He turned his head and met Ennis’s widening eyes.
“You?” Ennis looked stunned.
Sebastian nodded and looked away. “Winchelsea is a good friend.” He paused, then went on, “I feel I should apologize for his inappropriate sense of humor. It was his idea to label me thus, but I realize, in the circumstances, the words might have led you to suppose his stand-in was someone else.”
“Just so.” Ennis sounded aggrieved.
Sebastian glanced sharply at him. “You haven’t spoken of this to anyone else by mistake?”
“No—no.” Ennis put a hand to his neckcloth as if it was suddenly too tight. “Look here—I can’t talk to you here. What I have to tell Winchelsea is too…complicated to be conveyed in a few words.”
His gaze once more on Hadley’s antics, Sebastian slowly nodded. “Very well. When and where?”
“Tonight. In my study.” Ennis paused, then added, “I’ll meet you there at ten o’clock.”
“Yes.” Sebastian raised his voice. “Look at that—straight through both hoops!” Walking to Hadley, Sebastian clapped him on the shoulder, then glanced at Ennis. “Your turn.”
They continued their game. Sebastian estimated his exchange with Ennis had taken no more than two minutes. If, as Ennis’s nervousness suggested, someone of the company was connected with the plot Ennis intended to expose, even if that person had been watching them, there was no reason they would have imagined he and Ennis had discussed anything more enthralling than Hadley’s game.
The tournament eventually concluded, with Worthington declared the outright winner, with Hadley in second place.
The younger ladies returned from the folly, and Cecilia, Mrs. Parrish, and Mrs. McGibbin returned from their exploration of the rose garden just as Blanchard appeared on the rear terrace to strike the gong summoning the party to luncheon.
Antonia appeared by Sebastian’s side and boldly wound her arm with his.
He wasn’t entirely certain he approved of the bolder, wilder side of her—certainly not when she allowed it out in public.
“So have you managed to corner Ennis?” Her words floated to him on a whisper.
“Yes.” The others had started across the lawn to the terrace. He and she fell in at the rear of the company. He dipped his head and murmured, “He elected to meet at ten o’clock tonight in his study. He’s definitely nervous of someone here.”
“Hmm…if he is, that suggests that someone must have some sort of connection with whatever group Ennis intends to inform against—doesn’t it?”
“So one would infer.” He paused, then said, “While we’re whiling away the day waiting for this meeting, we should see what more we can learn about the other Anglo-Irish here.”
She nodded. “You’ll be largely restricted to the men. I’ll see what I can extract from the women.”
They joined the other guests in the dining room. As the seating at breakfast and luncheon was informal, and they were the last to reach the table, they perforce had to take the two remaining seats—the pair in the middle of the table on either side. That left Sebastian to entertain Miss Bilhurst and Miss Boyne, while Antonia was left to the dubious delights of Worthington—still crowing about his croquet win—on one side and Wilson on the other.
As it happened, that suited Sebastian and Antonia; they diligently applied themselves to their joint undertaking, and the meal passed off more quickly and satisfactorily than either had expected.
When the company rose, Antonia left Sebastian to his own devices and concentrated on cultivating Mrs. McGibbin, who was as Irish as her husband, unlike Mrs. Parrish, who was English through and through.
But she quickly discovered that Mrs. McGibbin belonged to that class of wives who paid no attention whatsoever to the details of their husband’s business. Beyond what she’d already imparted about McGibbin’s interest in the local fishing fleet, she knew no more; she did not even know if her husband belonged to any particular club.
Antonia shifted her sights to Melinda Boyne and was pleased to discover that the younger woman had something of a tendre for Filbury. Consequently, Melinda was a font of information on Filbury’s background, friends, and associates, and, even more importantly, his views—and those of his close friends—on such matters as Irish independence.
On the latter subject, Antonia had to reach deep and project an artlessness bordering on the inane; as the daughter of a very English earl, she had to phrase her questions exceedingly carefully and, as Melinda was by no means witless, pretend to a lack of comprehension that was profound, yet at the same time believable.
The careful interrogation took time and skill and lasted until teatime. During the half hour spent over the cups in the drawing room and the amble about the rose garden with her friends that followed, Antonia learned little else. Instead, she sifted through the numerous hints and facts Melinda had let fall.
By the time the gong to dress for dinner sounded, she was ready to retire and refresh herself, body and mind, before participating in dinner and the musical evening Cecilia had arranged.
She climbed the stairs with Claire and Georgia. Claire headed into the west wing, while Antonia and Georgia walked into the east wing to their rooms.
“See you downstairs.” Georgia waved and went into her room.
Antonia opened her door, walked inside, and saw Sebastian seated on the window seat.
He didn’t rise. Odd. Normally, inculcated manners would have brought him to his feet. Only in private and only with a lady with whom he considered himself very close—such as a lover—would his instincts allow him to remain seated… Had he remained seated on purpose to send her some message? Or had he not even noticed that he hadn’t risen?
One brow arching, she shut the door. A quick glance around informed her that Beccy wasn’t in the room.
“Your maid was here. I sent her off and told her to wait for you to ring.”
High-handed of you. Antonia didn’t bother saying the words; she just threw him a haughty, disapproving look and walked to the dressing table. With a swish of her skirts, she subsided onto the stool. “So what have you learned?”
She reached for the pins that held the bun at the back of her head in place. As she pulled the first free, she met Sebastian’s eyes in the mirror.
Yes, she was teasing him—challenging him—by letting down her hair like this, but…too bad. Her wild side felt like it, and if he could arrogantly presume to send her maid away…
She felt certain that, as in so many endeavors, he assumed that he would be in complete and absolute control of any relationship between them—that it would proceed and develop as he dictated.
That certainty only prodded her into seeing how far she could push him—how far she could provoke him before he realized his assumption wasn’t correct.
A frisson of danger—of anticipation—fizzed through her veins.
She pulled out the next pin.
Sebastian felt he should—somehow—stop her unraveling her hair; the action created a far-too-intimate atmosphere, yet he couldn’t summon the necessary will to override his more primitive side. That part of him, the sensual, sexual being, wanted to see that crowning glory rippling over her shoulders. She’d been wearing her hair up for over a decade; he couldn’t recall exactly what it had looked like when
, as a girl, she’d worn it down.
And it would be different now—lusher, thicker, more vibrant.
Surreptitiously, he cleared his throat and ignored his ever-sharpening appetite. “From all I gathered from Worthington and Filbury—both of whom gossip far too readily, useful though that trait is in this instance—I suspect Ennis has, at the very least tacitly and possibly through donations, been a supporter of the Young Irelander cause. However, despite possessing a large and well-established estate over there, he hasn’t been back much in the past decade, and he certainly wasn’t directly involved, any more than Parrish, McGibbin, or the younger men were, in the recent rebellion. Added to that, Cecilia is English to the bone, and according to Wilson—another likely Young Irelander-sympathizer—her influence is definitely anti-Irish.”
“So although Ennis might retain a sympathy for the Irish, it’s sympathy-at-a-distance, and, overall, he’s settled into and is accepted by English society—and by all the evidence, he values that position.” Antonia continued easing pins from her tightly coiled hair and laying them on the dressing table. “I gathered from Mrs. Parrish and Mrs. McGibbin that the Ennises have lived here or at their town house in London consistently since their marriage.”
He nodded. “I can see plenty of justification for Ennis, if he’d heard of something beyond mere protests—for instance, of some plot that bordered on treason—feeling compelled to contact Drake. As for whom among the guests he fears…I can’t see why it would be Parrish or McGibbin. Although both live in Ireland and, therefore, presumably have closer ties to those there, I get the sense they’re exactly as they appear—gentlemen devoted to the managing of their estates and businesses and having no special interest in any political intrigue.”
“I got the same impression from Miss Bilhurst—although she’s English, I gather she’s been close to her aunt and uncle for most of her life and has visited them frequently—and also from Melinda Boyne, who has known the Parrishes and McGibbins for years. Later, I overheard Cecilia talking to Mrs. Parrish and Mrs. McGibbin about their homes and children—again, there was no whiff of anything that might remotely suggest any political interest at all, not on the ladies’ or even on their husbands’ parts.” Antonia let her coiled hair fall. The mass unfurled in a waterfall of wavy black tresses that spilled over her back, almost to her waist.
Sebastian clenched both hands on the edge of the window seat, gripping against the impulse to rise and stroll to stand behind her—to where he could reach out and run his fingers through the silken fall of her hair; if fingers could slaver, at that moment, his did—hungry for the feel of black silk sliding across his palms and over and around his fingers. Antonia sighed as if in physical relief, then raked her fingers under and back through her hair, lifting the long tresses, then letting them slither free. He tried to block the sight from his mind and forced himself to speak, although to his ears at least, his tone was flat, devoid of enthusiasm. “Assuming that Ennis is, indeed, fearful of someone present at the house party and not someone outside the company, then it seems we’re looking at the younger men.”
Antonia picked up her hairbrush. “Through my discussions with Worthington and Filbury at the luncheon table, and what Melinda Boyne—who’s sweet on Filbury—let fall later, I gather both Worthington and Filbury are sympathetic to the cause, but neither go beyond good wishes. I seriously doubt either of them would be actively involved in any plot, but they might be informants to those who are.”
She set the brush to her hair and started plying it—running down each long strand from her scalp to the wavy ends. “From what Cecilia let fall, she doesn’t approve of any of the four. She tolerates Connell because he’s Ennis’s brother, and it’s a family tradition that this house party is held to coincide with his annual visit to report to Ennis about the Irish harvest. Because Cecilia wanted to invite us—me, Melissa, and Claire, as well as Georgia and Hadley—she needed to make up the numbers, so to keep peace with Ennis, she invited Filbury, Wilson, and Worthington.” She paused, busily brushing, then went on, “That said, Cecilia’s attitude to the four younger men is dismissive rather than condemnatory—more because she doesn’t consider them up to snuff socially than because she imagines they’re up to no good.”
The sight of her steadily, rhythmically running the brush through her hair was literally mesmerizing.
After several seconds, Sebastian blinked, then dragged his eyes from the sight. He focused on the floor. After a moment, he frowned. “Ennis is anxious, even fearful, of someone, but it’s possible the reason for that has nothing to do with his message for Drake.”
“Another coincidence?”
He looked up and, in the mirror, met her eyes, took in her cynically disbelieving expression. He felt his jaw set. “Quite.” He hesitated, then took the bit between his teeth and did what he’d come there to do. “Tonight, after dinner, don’t go anywhere near Ennis—especially don’t go near his study.”
In the glass, she held his gaze, then she arched a coolly imperious brow.
“I promise I’ll come and tell you what he says afterward.” He’d told her of the meeting and would tell her of its outcome for one simple reason; it was senseless to keep such information a complete secret, to have no one but himself knowing, not when she was there, knew Drake, and understood the mission, and he knew he could trust her.
She studied him—searched his face—for several seconds, then she nodded. “Very well. Just as long as you tell me later.”
That had gone better than he’d hoped. He hadn’t been sure how she would react to what she might well have interpreted as an attempt to rein her in.
The warning was an attempt to keep her away from any potential action; while talking to Ennis should, theoretically, be safe enough, Sebastian’s thumbs were pricking. He didn’t like not knowing the source of Ennis’s underlying fear.
But he’d accomplished what he’d come there to do—he’d learned what she’d found out about the other guests and had ensured she would keep her distance that evening.
His gaze had drifted and was once more transfixed on her brush, traveling languidly through the thick fall of her hair. He inwardly shook himself free of the distraction and rose. “I’ll see you in the drawing room.”
She met his gaze, then pointed to the bellpull. “You can ring for Beccy before you leave.”
He hid a grin at her tone; she hadn’t liked him dismissing her maid. So he dutifully tugged the bellpull, then opened the door and slipped out, closing the door quietly behind him.
Antonia paused in her brushing and stared at the closed door for several seconds. Ennis was frightened of someone or something. Frightened people were unpredictable.
Then again, she’d never known Sebastian not to be able to take care of himself.
Turning back to the mirror, she set down her brush and reached up to remove her earrings.
* * *
At two minutes to ten o’clock that evening, Sebastian pushed away from the balustrade at the east end of the terrace that ran along the front of the house and ambled back toward the front door.
Half an hour earlier, after they’d finished with the port and brandy, Ennis had been the first to rise from the dining table. He’d excused himself on the grounds of having some urgent estate matter to deal with and had gone off, presumably to his study.
After a day spent in each other’s company, the guests had grown more relaxed with each other; the other men had drifted from the table in twos and threes. Sebastian had retreated to the front terrace—deserted at that time—to avoid being roped into another billiards game or some conversation; he didn’t want to have to make his excuses at ten o’clock, thereby calling attention to a meeting.
He opened the heavy front door, stepped inside, and let the door quietly close behind him. His shoes made little sound as he walked slowly down the long front hall. He halted just short of the archway giving onto the corridor leading to Ennis’s study; earlier, he’d asked a footman where it
was. From the sound of feminine voices and the tinkling of a piano, it seemed the ladies had remained in the music room whither they’d retreated on rising from the table.
The green-baize-covered door at the rear of the hall swung open, and Blanchard appeared, pushing the tea trolley. He saw Sebastian and inclined his head, then turned the trolley toward the music room.
Sebastian stirred and walked forward. He turned into the corridor leading toward the study just as, with a series of whirrs and muted clangs, the clocks in the house geared up for the hour, then bonged and chimed in unison.
As the tenth bong resonated through the house, he reached the intersection where the corridor he was in met another to the left; the intersecting corridor led to Ennis’s study and ultimately to the billiards room. The door to the study lay three paces along the corridor. Somewhat to Sebastian’s surprise, the door stood slightly ajar.
He halted outside the door and rapped on the panel. He heard nothing from inside—no sound at all bar the clink of billiard balls coming from the end of the corridor. Increasingly wary, he pushed the study door further open.
Ennis’s desk, a large, polished mahogany affair, stood at one side of the room, set square and facing across the width, with the chair behind pushed back against a wall of shelves. Sebastian stepped over the threshold and looked around the door, but there was no one sitting in the armchairs angled before the hearth.
A fire crackled cheerily in the grate.
On the opposite side of the room, the lamp on Ennis’s desk was lit, shedding a steady glow over several letters and papers left strewn across the blotter—as if Ennis had been there, but had just stepped out.
Then a gust of cooler air drew Sebastian’s gaze to the long window directly opposite the door. The curtains were pushed aside, and the sash was raised…curious, given it was cold and misty outside.
Sebastian hesitated, yet it was ten o’clock. He reached back, returned the door to its almost-closed position, then strolled toward the desk and put out a hand to draw back one of the pair of chairs angled before it.