Cardington Crescent by Anne Perry

for her this afternoon.”
    Vespasia left the room and went back upstairs. There was one more duty to perform, which was bound to be arduous. And because, in spite of the young woman’s inexcusable behavior over the last few weeks, she was fond of Sybilla, she wanted to tell her herself rather than let her hear from the servants—or worst still, from Eustace.
    She knocked on the bedroom door and opened it without waiting for a reply. The breakfast tray, finished with, sat on the side table. Sybilla was propped up in the large bed, lace-edged shawl thrown carelessly round her, peach satin nightgown sliding a little off one pale shoulder, and her black hair coiled at the nape of her neck and falling over her shoulder and down her bosom. Even at a moment such as this, Vespasia was struck by what a beautiful woman she was. It was a little overpowering.
    “Sybilla,” she said quietly, entering and sitting down on the edge of the bed uninvited. “I am sorry, my dear, but 1 have some very sad news for you.”
    Sybilla’s eyes opened wider with fear, and she sat upright. “William—”
    “No. George.”
    “What ... ?” Sybilla was obviously surprised, confused. Her first thought had been for William, and she had not adjusted whatever threat had been in her mind. “What has happened?”
    Vespasia reached forward and took the white hand that was closest to her, holding it hard. “George is dead, my dear. I am afraid he had a heart attack some time early this morning. There is nothing you can do, except to behave with the discretion you have so singularly failed to display so far—for Emily’s sake, and William’s, at least, if not for your own.”
    “Dead?” Sybilla whispered, as if she did not understand. “He can’t be! He was so ... so healthy! Not George—”
    “I am afraid there is no doubt.” Vespasia shook her head. “Now, I suggest you have your maid draw you a bath, get dressed, and remain in your room until you feel you have composed yourself sufficiently to face the family. Then come down and offer your assistance in whatever way it may be useful. I assure you, it is the best way in the world of overcoming your own distress.”
    Sybilla smiled so slightly it was barely a shadow. “Is that what you are doing, Aunt Vespasia?”
    “I suppose so.” Vespasia turned away, not wishing to betray the pain that was so close beneath the surface. “That should surely recommend it to you.”
    She heard the slither of sheets as Sybilia got up, and then a minute later the movement of the bellpull. It would ring in the servants’ hall and in her maid’s room, and wherever the girl was, she would come.
    “I must go and tell William,” Vespasia continued, trying to think what else there was to do. “And no doubt there will be arrangements, letters and so on.”
    Sybilia started to say something; it was going to be about Emily. But her nerve failed her before the sentence was complete enough to be spoken aloud, and Vespasia did not press her.
    The doctor came a little before noon, and Eustace met him and conducted him to the dressing room, where George was still precisely as Emily and Vespasia had found him. He was left alone, but for a footman to attend to any requirements he might have, such as hot water or towels. Eustace had no wish to be present for such a distressing matter, and he awaited the doctor’s remarks in the morning room with Vespasia. Emily and Sybilla were still in their respective rooms; Tassie had returned from the dressmaker and was in tears in the withdrawing room. Old Mrs. March was in the hot pink boudoir, which was her special preserve, being comforted by Jack Radley, whose attention she demanded. William was in the conservatory, the corner specially cleared for him to use as a studio. He had returned to his painting, pointing out that there was no purpose to be served by his sitting wringing his hands in the boudoir, and he found it more relief to his feelings to be alone and