by Juliana Gray
“I should be very happy to see the last of you, Wallingford,” said Alexandra. “I make no attempt to hide the fact.”
Lilibet picked up her wine and drank. It was raw stuff, disagreeable. She set it down again and willed Alexandra to keep her tongue in check. From across the table, Roland was gazing at her. She could feel the tender weight of his stare, as if he were stripping her bare, piece by piece.
Wallingford spoke in a cold voice. “Very well, then, Lady Morley. I should like to propose an amendment to our wager. To increase the stakes, as it were.”
“Oh, good God,” said Mr. Burke. “Haven’t you a better use of your time, Wallingford? Reading some of that vast collection in the library, perhaps? It is what we’re here for, after all.”
Alexandra laughed. “He’s welcome to join our literary discussion in the salon. We should be pleased to hear an additional perspective, although I would suggest bringing an umbrella, in case of inclement weather.”
“No, damn it all! I beg your pardon, Lady Somerton.”
Why on earth did everyone think her the guardian of all civilized behavior? “Not at all, Your Grace,” she said dryly.
“My proposal is this,” said Wallingford. He leaned forward, his dark eyes keen beneath his furrowed brow. “That the forfeit, in addition to Burke’s excellent suggestion of an advertisement in the Times, should include an immediate removal of the offending party from the castle.”
Removal. Lilibet’s limbs went cold. She clenched the stem of her wineglass and looked desperately at Roland.
He sat there as calm and insouciant as ever, his golden hair dipping in his forehead, the very picture of confident manhood. He shook his head and whistled. “Hard terms, old man. Are you quite sure? What if it’s us that’s given the old heave-ho?”
“You are, I admit, the weakest link in the chain,” said the duke, “but I believe I may rely upon Lady Somerton’s honor, if nothing else.”
“Really, Your Grace,” choked Lilibet. She felt as if she might faint. She tried to gather her wits, to say something that might save the situation, but her head was too dizzy, her stomach too roiling.
Alexandra broke in. “This is beyond absurd, Wallingford, all this talk of conspiracies and whatnot. I assure you, I haven’t the slightest intention of seducing poor Burke, and I daresay he has even less desire to be seduced. This is all about this business of the feathers this morning, isn’t it? You’re trying to have your revenge on us . . .”
Wallingford refilled his glass from the bottle on the table. The rawness of the Chianti seemed to trouble him not at all. “If I’m wrong, Lady Morley, you should have no reason at all to object to the increased stakes. Isn’t that so?”
Alexandra looked at Lilibet. Lilibet looked back pleadingly. Surely her cousin wouldn’t leap to Wallingford’s bait. Surely she had enough sense, enough compassion for Lilibet’s plight.
“Of course I shouldn’t object.” Alexandra spoke with care, picking her words. “Other than a sense of . . . of the absurdity of it all.”
Mr. Burke cleared his throat. “Really, Wallingford. It’s hardly necessary. I don’t see any reason why we can’t continue to muddle on as we are. A tuft of goose down, here and there, doesn’t much signify. And I’m fairly confident I can resist Lady Morley’s charms, however determined her attempts on my virtue.” He kept his face quite admirably straight.
Wallingford leaned against the back of his chair and allowed a smug smile to wear across his face. “None of you, then, not one of you has the fortitude to meet my offer? Lady Morley? Your competitive spirit can’t be tempted?”
“You always were an ass, Wallingford.” Alexandra shook her head.
Lilibet’s pulse began to resume its regular cadence against the base of her throat. Alexandra had it well in hand. Alexandra was thinking of something, finding some way to twist the duke’s words around, to turn the situation to their advantage. Alexandra would never risk the security of their presence here at the castle.
“Why not?”
The clear voice piped from Alexandra’s other side, innocent and ingenuous.
Abigail. Not Abigail.
She went on, almost merrily. “I can’t speak for your side, Your Grace, but we three are simply going about our business, studying and learning just as we intended. If it amuses you to turn this into a game, to raise the stakes, consider the wager accepted. It means nothing to us, after all. Does it, Alex?”
Next to her, Alexandra traced the handle of her knife where it crossed her empty plate. Her knuckles were white. “No. No, of course not,” she said. Beneath the table, she patted Lilibet’s knee with her other hand. “Very well. We accept your stakes, Wallingford. Though it hardly matters, as your suspicions are entirely wrongheaded. In fact, your head itself seems to be wrongheaded at the moment, and I suggest you turn away from your wild speculations and put it firmly to work as you intended in the first place. We’re on Aristophanes ourselves, just now, and my dear Abigail has already reviewed it twice in the original Greek. I’m certain she would have some useful insights for you. Perhaps she can assist you with your alphas and omegas.”
With slow deliberation, Lilibet plucked Alexandra’s hand from her knee and dropped it in her cousin’s lap.
Wallingford prepared to rise. “My alphas and omegas are quite in order, I assure you, Lady Morley. And now, ladies, if you’ll pardon the unpardonable, I must excuse myself, and leave you to the far more appealing company of my fellow scholars.”
He rose and exited the room, leaving a queasy silence behind him.
Alexandra gave an uncertain laugh. “Now why do I have the distinct impression he’s just played us all for fools?”
“Well, well,” said Roland. “Amusing, what?”
Mr. Burke folded his napkin and rose. “I think it’s time I retired. Ladies, good evening.”
Roland heaved a reluctant sigh, but the constraints of etiquette were no match for him. “Yes, quite,” he said, rising, too. “Back to those jolly old alphas and omegas in the library. What fun. Ah, this really is the life, isn’t it?”
Lilibet considered herself a patient woman. She waited until the gentlemen had left, until their very footsteps had died away in the corridor, before pouncing on her cousin with all claws bared.
Metaphorically, of course.
“What the devil were you thinking?” she demanded, in a decidedly catlike hiss.
Alexandra and Abigail both started and stared at her. She couldn’t quite blame them. They’d never heard her say the word deuce before, let alone devil, let alone anything at all in such a tone of feline menace.
“My dear,” Alexandra said, “whatever do you mean?” She leaned aside to allow Francesca to pick up her empty plate.
“You both know exactly what I mean!” Lilibet turned to Abigail and thrust her voice into a singsong falsetto. “If it amuses you to turn this into a game, to raise the stakes, consider the wager accepted!”
“Now, wait a moment, my dear . . .” began Alexandra.
“And you!” Lilibet stabbed her forefinger in Alexandra’s direction. “We accept your stakes, Wallingford, though it hardly matters. Hardly matters, you said!” She let her hand fall to the table in an angry fist. Francesca jumped, nearly dropping the stack of plates in her arm, and scurried out the door.
“Lilibet, dearest,” said Alexandra, laying her hand atop Lilibet’s like a soothing warm blanket. “You’re a dear, sweet, straightforward soul, and don’t understand the first thing about gamesmanship . . .”
“Gamesmanship!” Lilibet shot up from her chair and planted her hands on her hips. “Gamesmanship! Is it all just a game to you, Alex? Is it? Because I thought—I rather thought—it had something to do with my life! With Philip’s life!”
Alexandra rose warily and moved behind her own chair, placing her long-fingered h
ands on the scalloped edge at the top. “Perhaps I used the wrong word . . .”
“Perhaps you did! Perhaps you used the wrong strategy altogether! Because . . .”
She felt a hand on the side of her arm and turned to find Abigail standing there, grave faced, her brown eyes large and round against her pale skin. “Of course we understand, Lilibet. Of course we do. We all love you and Philip. But don’t we want the gentlemen to leave? Wallingford’s proposal plays directly into our hands.”
“But don’t you see? He aims to win himself. He’ll be trying to make us crack, so that we’re forced to leave.”
A thump sounded outside the door to the dining room. Lilibet froze, staring into Alexandra’s face.
Abigail went to the door. “It’s nothing,” she said. “Just Francesca, bumping the corner with the plates.”
Alexandra tapped her finger against her arm and cast Abigail a significant look across the top of Lilibet’s head. “Perhaps it might be wise to discuss this in the kitchen.”
Lilibet looked back and forth between her cousins and sighed. “Very well.”
Philip sat at the broad wooden table in the kitchen, under the watch of the housekeeper and the maids, finishing his dessert. His gaze lifted from a plate of panettone to meet Lilibet’s and lit with joy. “Mama!” he cried, and flew into her arms.
She knelt to receive him and buried her face in his warm bread-scented hair. His small limbs clung to her with tenacious strength. “Hello, darling,” she said. “Have you been a good boy and eaten your dinner?”
The housekeeper rose from the table, smiling. “He is being such a good boy. He eat his lamb, his fagioli, his artichoke. He is growing forte, strong.” She flexed her white-shirted arm to demonstrate.
“Thank you, Signorina Morini,” said Lilibet, returning the housekeeper’s smile.
“Signorina Morini gave me an extra piece of panettone,” he whispered in Lilibet’s ear. “Is that all right?”
“If you ate all your dinner, of course it is, poppet.” She gave his hair a last tousling and straightened. “Darling, the grown-ups need to have a bit of a chat. Would you like to run along with Francesca and start your bath? Then I’ll be there shortly to read your story and tuck you in.”
“A bath!” he groaned.
From the corner of her eye, Lilibet saw Francesca heave a desperate sigh. The girl didn’t understand much English, but the word bath had become painfully evident to her over the past few weeks.
“Yes, dear. No foot-dragging. If you’re good with Francesca, I’ll read you an extra story tonight.” She cast her mind about. “The one about the bunnies. You like that one.”
“Mama. Not that one. You’ve read it over and over. It’s for babies.”
It took a certain amount of threatening, cajoling, and outright bribery, but eventually Philip made his way upstairs, his hand in Francesca’s, and Lilibet collapsed into a worn rush-seated chair at the table, next to Abigail.
“Such a darling,” Abigail said. “He told me the most delightful story this afternoon, during his lesson. Something about a picnic at the lake with a certain gentleman of our acquaintance.”
“Don’t change the subject,” said Lilibet sharply. “You’re to tell me exactly what sort of plot you’re hatching against Wallingford.”
“Oh, it’s very simple.” Abigail reached for the last remaining crumb of panettone on Philip’s plate and popped it into her mouth. “We’re to catch Penhallow seducing you and have them all thrown out.”
“What?” demanded Lilibet.
“What?” demanded Alexandra.
“Che cosa?” murmured Signorina Morini, from the far end of the table.
Abigail looked innocently about their faces. “Don’t you see? I’ve been needling the poor fellow—Wallingford, I mean—for weeks now, goading him into some sort of step like this. It’s perfect. If we catch Penhallow in flagrante, as it were, they’ll be honor bound to leave.”
Lilibet leapt from her chair. “In flagrante! With Penhallow!”
“Yes, with Penhallow.” Abigail lifted her hand, palm up. “Who else? Mr. Burke?”
“Certainly not Mr. Burke,” snapped Alexandra.
Abigail ducked her head, hiding a smile. “Yes, of course. I forgot myself. But you and Penhallow, Lilibet—it’s perfect! He’s desperately in love with you. Crook your finger and he’ll be at your side, doing whatever it is men do to seduce women. Tearing at your bodice, I suppose. And . . .”
“I say, where the devil do you hear such things?” demanded Alexandra.
“Novels. And we’ll all come bounding in, shouting Aha! just like a play.” She clapped her hands. “Perfect!”
“But I can’t!” said Lilibet. Her pulse pounded in her temples; she dropped back into her chair with a defeated thump. “I can’t possibly!”
Abigail reached out to pat her hand. “Oh, we shan’t let it go too far, of course. You and your impregnable virtue.”
“It’s out of the question.” Lilibet jerked her hand back and knotted it with the other one in her lap. She took in a deep breath, letting the kitchen scents of rosemary and baking bread spread through her mind, warm and comforting.
“Just a tiny tear, Lilibet. I’ll mend it myself. Lord Somerton need never know.”
“Well, he will know, won’t he?” Lilibet said, picking at her dress. “When he reads the advertisement in the Times.”
Abigail waved her hand dismissively. “We’ll tell the men the advertisement is unnecessary.”
“They’ll tell everybody, when they return to town.”
“Not if we ask them to remain silent.” Abigail smiled. “Wallingford’s a bounder, but he’s an honorable bounder. More or less.”
Alexandra, who had been sitting quietly throughout, eyes fixed to the table, now cleared her throat. “You know, I really don’t see that any of this is necessary. The men usually keep to their wing of the castle, and we to ours. What’s the difference?” Her voice was oddly soft.
“Because it’s such good fun, of course. Come now,” Abigail said, turning to Lilibet. Her brown eyes glittered. “Wouldn’t it be lovely to have the place to ourselves? To be free of them, once and for all?”
A meditative sound came from the direction of Signorina Morini’s throat. Lilibet looked over just in time to catch a small shake of the housekeeper’s head, her shiny dark hair escaping her kerchief to curl about her forehead and the nape of her neck. Behind her, the immense hearth glowed with the remains of the fire, hissing and popping in a comforting rhythm; the white beeswax candles in the sconces flickered in warm yellow circles against the plaster walls.
Lilibet put her hands atop the table and drew a circle into the worn wood, acutely conscious of the tiny unknown speck, low in her belly, fighting for survival. In a few months she would be unable to conceal its existence. What would Roland say, what would he do, if he suspected?
She knew the answer. He’d never let a child of his be raised with Somerton’s name. He’d confront her husband, force a divorce; she’d lose her son, lose her friends, lose her good name. She’d be left with only this new life growing within her, this new baby, and Roland’s fleeting attention, before his passion cooled and his attention wandered. Ostracism, shame, exile, heartbreak: She could taste them in her mouth already, bitter and pungent, a slow poison of the soul.
She looked back up at Abigail’s eager elfin face. “So, my dear. How exactly do you propose to arrange this meeting?”
* * *
The tiny creak of a floorboard outside the library warned Roland of an intruder.
He went still in his chair, absorbing every detail of the space around him. The musty smells of old leather and damp wood and warm plaster wound through his nostrils; the heavy air hung motionless next to his ears, holding the towering shelves of books in place. Outside
the open doorway, a shadow moved against the wall, slight and hesitant.
Roland smiled.
“Come on in, old fellow,” he said, placing his thumb inside the crease of his book and closing the pages from view. “It’s the man’s side of the house, after all.”
A small head peered around the doorframe. “Sir?”
“Come in, come in.” Roland set the book aside and stood. “Does your mother know you’re here?”
Philip took a step forward. “No, sir. Not exactly. I’m meant to be taking my bath just now.”
“Oh yes. I quite understand. Baths not at all the thing for a spirited chap like yourself. Glass of . . . er . . .” He glanced at the tray of decanters on the lamp table. “Water?”
“No, thank you, sir.” Philip took a few more steps and stopped, straightening his shoulders, fingers plucking at his sleeves. His white sailor’s jacket had been removed, as well as his shoes and stockings, but he’d apparently made good his escape before shirt and shorts could be addressed.
“Yes. Well, then.” Roland put his hands behind his back. “What seems to be the matter, young man?”
“Well, sir.” Philip’s throat worked. He put his own hands behind his back, looking stiff and rather touchingly brave. He took a deep breath that seemed to envelop his entire body, and then said, in a rush: “You’re the matter, sir.”
“I’m the matter?”
“Yes, sir. You . . . in the orchard today . . . you made my mother cry.”
The floor seemed to fall away beneath Roland’s feet. He put out one hand to catch himself on the leather back of the chair from which he’d just risen. “I . . . I’m sorry . . . I what?”
Philip’s young voice gained strength with the force of righteous conviction. “After she talked to you. I gave her the flowers, and she . . . she had tears, sir. She tried to hide it, like she always does, but I can tell. Sir.”
