Page 27 of Never Love a Lord
Sybilla was not at all startled to encounter Graves in the private corridor leading to the secret door in the wall behind her table in the great hall. The man was a wraith, all knowing, and it didn’t surprise her that Graves had sensed an unsettled soul roaming about his domain.
“Trouble sleeping, Madam?” he asked solicitously.
“A bit, Graves, yes,” she answered. Graves was the only person under heaven that she felt she could be completely honest with at all times. After all, he already knew all of her secrets, and probably a few more that Sybilla herself could only guess at.
“Might I prepare you a toddy?” he offered as she drew near him.
“Only if you’ll join me,” she said, passing him and pulling at the silent and seamless door that would lead to her table.
She halted before the door was even a quarter of the way open, easily hearing the echo of quiet voices in the cavernous room beyond. She held up her left hand, signaling Graves to silence, and then slowly pulled the door open a bit more, searching the shadows for the midnight speakers.
Julian Griffin was pacing slowly in the aisle created by the rows of planked tables, his daughter perched upon his chest, her chubby forearms laid on his shoulder. The nursemaid, Murrin, sat at one of the benches, but her head was laid atop her arms on the table, a piece of sewing forgotten in her lap.
“Lord Griffin, Madam?” Graves asked in a whisper behind her.
Sybilla nodded.
“Is he stealing the fixtures?”
Sybilla felt herself smile and she shook her head absently. She turned her face slightly to direct her whisper over her shoulder. “He’s walking the child. The nurse is asleep.”
“Didn’t we give them aroom?” he muttered crossly.
Sybilla understood Graves’s frustration. She didn’t like strangers in her home either, even one as handsome as Julian Griffin.
Especially one as enigmatic and unnerving as Julian Griffin.
She couldn’t take her eyes from him as he moved slowly through the shadows of the hall, speaking in a deep, soothing voice to the infant, who was happily chewing on one fist then the other. He seemed quite happy and at peace for such a late hour. They both did.
Would it have been so terrible had the Foxe Ring legend proved true for them? Sybilla thought no. Perhaps he was not overly wealthy, with lands and title to boast of. But he was closely connected to the king, and since he admitted to making London his home, he was likely well received and respected. He was of such repute as to have commanded a royal match, after all. If the Foxe Ring had worked, and Julian took his information to the king, if Sybilla begged for mercy, would Edward allow a match between them?
Sybilla didn’t know how deep Julian Griffin’s feelings for her could run without the magical workings of a legend. It meant little to her that he had admitted a desire for her body—even a prostitute could claim to be desired. Soon she would be without her title, without her money, her power—disgraced. Fodder for gossip. Doors closed, invitations ceased. Nothing to recommend her.
Her eyes followed him closely, marveling at him, up and about in the dead of night, his infant in his arms, while the dumb nurse slept through her duties.
Sybilla wondered what it would feel like to be comforted in those arms. Possibly heavenly.
She blinked and frowned.
“Are we to stand in the corridor all night, Madam?” Graves asked.
Julian Griffin turned on his heel and presented his back to the slice of room Sybilla could see through the doorway. He began walking slowly once more toward the stairs at the head of the long room, and Sybilla backed into the corridor, pushing the door shut before her.
She turned to Graves. “I think I shall beg off a drink, Graves. I feel I might be better able to sleep now.”
The old man stared down his nose at her with narrowed eyes.
“What?” Sybilla demanded, moving past him.
“What?” Graves echoed.
She ignored him, making her way back to her rooms alone, the image of Julian Griffin still pacing running through her mind.
Chapter 11
Julian stared at the door in the early morning darkness of the corridor. Even if he had not done his own investigation of the private wing to determine where Sybilla Foxe’s chamber lay, he could not have mistaken it. The door was carved with a fine and intricate design, and its thick coat of black paint marked it as unique from the other doors in the wing. He studied the markings as best he could in the meager light provided by the sconce on the wall behind him, running his fingers over it in spots.
Leaves of some sort, a long blade—a stylized sword, perhaps, but with a tip that ended in the shape of a serpent’s head. There were words or symbols half-hidden in the design, in a language Julian did not recognize.
