One Forbidden Evening. Jo Goodman

to the window where the drapes had already been tied back. The morning was overcast, but there was a break in the distant clouds that held the promise of sunshine. Cybelline opened the window and allowed Anna to poke her head out.

      “Bird?” Fortunately, there were several plump pigeons on parade. They were strutting along the lip of the neighbor’s roof, perfectly content to be the object of so much admiration from across the way. “Bird! There bird!”

      “Indeed.” Cybelline squeezed her daughter, making small cooing noises that were not unlike the conversation going on between the pigeons. It was only when Anna flapped her arms that the birds objected. They scattered so quickly that Anna was startled. Her small head snapped back, catching Cybelline on the chin.

      “Oooh!” They said it in unison.

      Cybelline rubbed the back of her child’s head, forgoing the urge to massage her own chin. She kissed the injured spot for good measure and to keep Anna’s face from crumpling, she pointed to her chin and said, “Kiss Mama here.”

      Anna pursed her dewy lips and followed her mother’s finger. There was a rather loud smacking noise and a bit of drool, but the sentiment was clear.

      “How I love you,” Cybelline whispered, her heart in her throat. “There are no words.”

      Lady Rivendale set down her cup as Cybelline entered the breakfast room. “I was not certain I would see you this morning. I thought you might enjoy a lie-in. You returned quite late, I noticed.”

      Instead of responding to this overture, Cybelline went to the sideboard and served herself from the plate of eggs and sliced tomatoes. “Good morning, Aunt Georgia.”

      Georgia Pendleton, Countess of Rivendale, was in point of fact no blood relation to Cybelline, nor even the wife of a blood relation. Those who might offer the homily that blood was thicker than water failed to measure the viscosity of the relationship that Lady Rivendale had nurtured over a score of years with her godson and his younger sister.

      The countess, being the dearest friend of Cybelline’s mother, had been named godmother to Alexander Henry Grantham at his baptism. Eight years later, when Cybelline had had the same rite performed on her, Lady Rivendale was touring the Continent, and no one was named to that position of responsibility. It was just as well, Cybelline had come to realize, for Lady Rivendale would have cheerfully removed the competition.

      When Cybelline’s parents perished in a fire it was the countess who came to take her and her brother in hand. There had been an uncle who was named guardian, but Lady Rivendale and her solicitor made short work of that. It was not as if the uncle had tried very hard to keep them. She was not long out of the nursery and her brother—now the Viscount Sheridan—was still at Eton. They must have seemed singularly uninteresting persons to their uncle, she thought, but to Lady Rivendale they were fascinating—in a bug-in-a-jar fashion.

      “You are smiling,” Lady Rivendale said as Cybelline turned away from the sideboard. “Am I right to count that as a happy turn?”

      “I believe it is a good thing, yes.” She took her seat beside the countess and picked up her fork. “I was remembering your timely rescue of me and Sherry from our uncle’s home. Do you know that he called us brats at the funeral of our parents?”

      “I knew it. I didn’t realize you did.”

      “I overheard him, the same as Sherry.”

      “You trod on the man’s toes, I hope.”

      “No, but I sobbed until I made myself sick—at his feet.”

      “A perfectly elegant solution. I have always been impressed with your ability to rise to the occasion, Cybelline.”

      “Thank you…I think.” She relieved her discomfort by taking a bite of shirred egg. “Did you sleep well? I have not inquired as to your health this morning, though you are looking fit.”

      “You mean you have not inquired as to when I intend to quit your home.”

      Cybelline waggled her fork at Lady Rivendale. “I meant nothing of the sort. It is very bad of you to put words in my mouth.” She returned to her meal. “I should very much like to hear how you fare.”

      “I slept very well, thank you. I do not know the cause of the plaguey stomach ailment that has confined me here these last three days, but I am pleased to report it seems to have vanished last night.” She indicated her plate. “You can see for yourself that my appetite has returned. I am fit enough to travel and I will be making arrangements for doing so this morning.”

      Cybelline kept her smile in check. The distance to the countess’s residence was no greater than a mile, but to hear her speak of traveling there one could be forgiven for thinking she lived in Cornwall. When she took ill suddenly during an afternoon visit, there was no question but that she would stay. Although Lady Rivendale might have been more comfortable in her own bed, ordering around her own servants, Cybelline suspected that she truly did not want to be alone while she made a drama of her recovery. It was easier to uproot the countess’s servants and bring them to Cybelline’s than it was to distress the countess.

      “You know I was delighted to have you stay here, though you must not think I am happy that it was illness that forced your hand. Anna enjoys your visits, as do I.”

      “Still, I was a bother.”

      Now Cybelline let her smile surface. “I am never certain what the politic response is. Is it more important that I agree with you, thereby sustaining the notion that you are always in the right of things, or is the better strategy to argue that in this instance you could not be more wrong? I should like you to advise me how to proceed.”

      Lady Rivendale picked up her coffee cup and shrewdly regarded Cybelline over the rim before she sipped from it. The tactic gave her time to digest the whole of Cybelline’s question. “I declare, you are even more accomplished at disarming me than your brother—and Sherry is excellent.”

      “No one disarms you, Aunt Georgia. If you do not fire back a volley, it is only because you are choosing your battles, not because you have been relieved of your weapons.”

      The countess nodded appreciatively. “A very pretty compliment, one I shall cherish.” She set her cup in the saucer again and touched her chin thoughtfully, still regarding Cybelline but without her earlier intensity. “What is that on your cap?” she asked. “On the ruffle.”

      Cybelline touched the front of her cap and felt a sticky globule of something she could not immediately identify. She carefully removed it with a fingertip and examined it. She chuckled when she saw what it was. “Porridge. Anna lobbed a spoonful of porridge at me. I’m afraid I didn’t eat much myself, which is why I came—” She stopped because Lady Rivendale’s gaze was riveted on the cap again. Her hands flew to it. “What is it? What—”

      The countess stood and quickly rounded the table to Cybelline’s side. Without communicating her intention, she plucked the cap from Cybelline’s head. Her sharp intake of breath was perfectly audible. She abandoned the dramatic gesture of placing one hand on her heart and chose instead to sink slowly back into her chair. It was also effective.

      Although the question was largely superfluous, Lady Rivendale felt compelled to ask it anyway. “Bloody hell, Cybelline, what have you done to your hair?”

      Chapter Three

      Cybelline calmly held out her hand for her linen cap. Lady Rivendale gave it over immediately. Crumpled as it was, Cybelline returned it to her head and carefully tucked away all evidence that her hair was now fiery red. “I am sorry it offends you, Aunt Georgia.”

      “Offends me? Why, it caused me to swear, and you know I have been trying to set a better example for the scoundrels.”

      “Then it is good they are not here.” The scoundrels were her brother’s three wards. Sherry had plucked the young ruffians from the streets of Holborn, giving the matter as much thought as one