Her Gilded Prison (Daughters of Sin 1)

Sybil didn’t reply. She was ashamed that she tacitly agreed with the sentiment that her nephew’s death during the bloody Peninsular campaign was a godsend for Humphry and the Grange.

The admiral’s next sentence heated her cheeks. “Bit peremptory of your husband to bring in reinforcements when you should be able to provide one of your own.” The rear admiral had been raised in a more down-to-earth era and no doubt considered the implication of his sharp-eyed study of her middle region not at all ill-mannered.

Sybil managed to swallow her sherry without making any unladylike noises before murmuring, “My husband wanted time to groom Mr. Cranbourne for his role in case—”

“Aye, that’s right, in case he went the way of his old pater.”

Sybil did not comment. Humphry’s father had drowned when in his cups, in a barrel of brandy, at the tender age of forty-five. “Not likely. In fact, your husband would do better if he were more like the old pater. But this Mr. Cranbourne. Is he likely to go his mother’s way? That’d be more my concern. Little strumpet, Miss Bessie Brayford was in her day. Aye, no credit to her sex, that’s what my mother said, but we don’t always listen to our mothers, do we? Your Miss Araminta doesn’t and I’ll warrant it won’t do her a jot of harm.”

The warmth of his glance as he gazed upon the young woman he’d dandled on his knee as an infant sent a pang of some unidentified longing through Sybil. Araminta, seated by the window, was holding court, Stephen appearing like a rapt disciple as he lounged against the wall and listened. Pride—and something else—raged through Sybil. Her daughter’s beauty was breathtaking, as was her ability to take what she wanted in life without thought for the consequences. While Sybil wanted nothing but happiness for her eldest daughter, Araminta was not going to get Mrs. Hazlett’s gray mare. She was determined upon it.

The rear admiral’s interest was as admiring as Stephen’s. “The girl knows how to get what she wants. Thank the lord she’s not playing up to that sapskull Edgar, which she would be if he were here being groomed for the role of heir.”

“Araminta wants to make a good match this season,” Sybil murmured. “Mr. Cranbourne would be a very good match.”

“Two months ago he wouldn’t have been. No, Miss Araminta has an eye to the main chance, and good on her. Let’s just hope Mr. Cranbourne knows what’s expected of him. Young man’s been around. He knows how to please the ladies, no doubt about that,” the rear admiral observed.

Sybil squinted at the young pair. Was her neighbor suggesting Mr. Cranbourne wasn’t genuinely smitten?

“No need to fluff up your feathers like a protective mother hen,” chuckled the rear admiral. “Mind you, with your eyes so bright and in that gown, you’re a fine sight to behold.”

A tremor of pleasure ran through her. It was the first time she’d been complimented in years. Her red silk gown was one she’d had made in a fit of daring the year before but never worn after Araminta derided her for trying to appear in the first stare “when surely you’re old enough, Mama, to know how positively sad it is to look like you’re trying to compete with your daughters.”

Since then she’d reverted to the simple, safe and matronly pastels she’d always worn. Mr. Cranbourne’s comment tonight had emboldened her to select the dress.

“And no need to gape as if you don’t know it’s true. You’re a damn fine-looking woman, Sybil, only Humphry don’t appreciate it.” He took another sip of his sherry, staring down his claret nose to add, “Araminta’s not the only beauty in the family. Now, as you’re clearly not used to compliments and your husband is looking this way, I shall bid you good evening and go and speak to my old neighbor.”

Sybil closed her mouth, returned Hetty’s smile—she was kneeling by Lady Zena’s cage whispering to the bird—then resumed watching Stephen and Araminta.

What had the rear admiral meant? Mr. Cranbourne was like every young man who met Araminta. He’d fallen completely under her spell. The only danger was if proceedings went awry. After the curtailing of her first season, no breath of scandal must touch Araminta.

No, let all proceed quietly to plan, prayed Sybil. Mr. Cranbourne was the new heir and Araminta, since the death of her brother, had been determined to marry whomever she needed to become mistress of the Grange.

It was Sybil’s duty, however, to warn Mr. Cranbourne, subtly, of Arabella’s expectations so as to avoid any potential misunderstandings.

* * * * *

Stephen was enjoying the attention of his lovely female audience as he leaned against the wall and listened to Araminta spout a string of deriding comments about all the ape leaders with whom she’d been forced to rub shoulders during her first season.

Clearly she’d despised everything as much as she’d enjoyed it. “Miss Clara Doyle only stood up three times at Almacks the first night I attended. She has more than ten thousand a year, but imagine a gentleman having to get past that nose of hers.”

“A large nose is an impediment to anyone, even those with ten thousand a year,” he agreed.

She sent him a wary glance before relaxing with a derisive smile as she went on, “And then there was poor Miss Myrtle, who might have been pretty had her guardian not insisted on dressing her like she’d been dragged out of a fashion plate from The Lady’s Magazine ten years ago. Why, the rig-outs—”

“One’s dress is vital to one’s success.” Stephen nodded, glancing at Lady Partington who looked, he conceded, mighty fine in hers this evening. One might even argue she looked a good ten years younger, which he calculated would put her at around thirty, only a couple years older than himself. Well, perhaps a few more, though age didn’t matter when a woman was that attractive.

She was talking to the rear admiral, a worried frown creasing her brow, but a disarming remark from him brought on a spontaneous laugh that lit up her face, making her in that moment exceptionally lovely. Lovely in quite a different way from Araminta, whose shrewd eyes narrowed as she intercepted his gaze.

“Poor Mama’s trying too hard again, I see,” she remarked. “I told her never to wear that dress. She’s far too old.”

“I don’t think so.”

Araminta stared at him. Clearly this was not the kind of thing she was either used to or had been expecting.

“Mama is practically in her dotage,” she insisted, leaning forward and looking past Stephen to frown at her elderly parent in conversation with the rear admiral.

“No, she’s not.”