The Lily Brand
Page 12
Leaning forward and supporting his weight with one hand on the windowpane, he put two fingers into his mouth and gave a shrill whistle.
Coachman, dogs, barouche-drivers, and footmen—his and theirs—all looked up.
“Hey, you pair of rascals,” he shouted, “have you lost your way, or what?”
The dogs jumped out of the carriage, wildly barking, and chased each other around the vehicle, causing the horses to neigh and snort in disdain. One of the men in the carriage, his white teeth flashing in a grin, nudged his companion and hollered over the din: “Look, Justin, the rumors have been quite wrong: He has not gone and moved to a cave in the woods.”
“A cave in the woods?” Troy infused his voice with mock dismay before he laughed. “Hold on, boys. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
He gladly abandoned his desk and hurried through his study to throw the door to the hallway open. As he dashed toward the main staircase, he could already hear the jumble in the hall below, and it seemed to him that his heart must surely start to sing in his chest. He skipped down the stairs, taking two at a time, and rushed through the big hall, past his butler, who attempted to straighten tufty gray hair and direct the footmen at the same time. In truth, they needed little direction, for they had already begun to carry the luggage inside and upstairs.
Troy pressed past them outside, where next to the carriage curious canine noses and outstretched arms awaited him.
“Troy, my boy!” Drake, tall, athletic and with an ever-merry twinkle in his green eyes, pulled him into a tight embrace. “God, it’s good to see you!” His voice wavered slightly. As if to make up for it, he thumped Troy’s back a few times before he pulled back in order to have a better look at him. His hand gripped the back of Troy’s neck and shook him lightly. “Look at you! Look at you!” Suddenly there were tears in his eyes and once again, he enveloped Troy in a tight hug.
“Sweeting,” a nasal drawl was to be heard, “it will not really do to crush the poor fellow to death, you know.”
“Jus, you can be a pest at times,” Drake mumbled into Troy’s shoulder.
“Shut up and give him to me,” came the affectionate reply, and then Troy found himself within the circle of another pair of strong arms. “Hello, my boy.” Troy was rocked from side to side in a slow motion. “I see you’ve gained a bit of flesh on your ribs in the past few months.”
“I have.” Troy smiled against Justin’s dusty greatcoat.
“Good. Good.” After a last tightening of his arms, Justin finally released him. “And here we are.” He threw his arms wide. “Tweedledee and Tweedledum, complete with bag and baggage.”
“And dogs.” Drake grinned. “Sit, girls.” Three silver-gray doggie bottoms hit the gravel with a crunch. “Troy, meet Anna, Sophie and Marie, our wonderfully wicked Weimaraners, a present from our dear friend Ludwig von Müffert.”
“Our wonderfully wicked Weimaraners, which are finally and thankfully free of worms and fleas and thus fit for civilized company,” Justin added. Even though his voice did not lose its normal nasal twang, the softening of his features betrayed his affection for the dogs.
Troy smiled. A hard nut, Justin de la Mere, at least on the outside, with his façade of polite boredom, but all mushy and soft inside.
He watched how Justin’s eyes lifted from the dogs to Drake and how the man’s features softened even more. Troy’s smile widened. He had known these two since his first week at Eton, when the three of them had banded together to prevent being bullied by the older boys. They were not really like the twins from the old song, Justin and Drake, more like night and day in coloring. Where Drake Bainbridge, Viscount Allenbright, was all pale English skin, sparkling green eyes and shiny, golden hair, Justin de la Mere had inherited the olive-hued skin of his southern French ancestors, Huguenot immigrants of two centuries past, as well as the chocolate brown eyes and the black curls, which he kept cropped short. He was of slighter build than Drake, yet his agility and his wiry strength made him a deadly opponent with both épée and rapier.
Troy slung his arms over Drake’s and Justin’s shoulders. “I am damn glad to see you and to have you here. You, too, girls.” Grinning, he inclined his head toward the three dogs. “Let’s go inside. You must want to freshen up, and if I’m not mistaken there’s a mighty good old port hidden somewhere in my cellars.”
“Indeed.” Justin whistled to the dogs to follow them. Tails wagging and floppy ears flying, Anna, Sophie and Marie scrambled off and darted past the men. “I guess we’ve got some catching up to do, too.”
“Do we?” Troy raised his brows.
“London news might take a while to reach the outposts of civilization in Cornwall,” Drake remarked dryly, “but even there we eventually heard that you’ve gone and got yourself a wife.”
His friend’s last words acted like a needle to Troy’s bubble of joy. He gave a harsh laugh and let go of their shoulders. “So you’ve come all the way from Cornwall to find out whether it’s true?” He could not prevent his voice from taking on a bitter tone.
He noticed how his two friends exchanged a look.
“No,” Drake said lightly. “In fact we’ve come to drink the cellars of Bair Hall dry since you haven’t invited us to the wedding.”
Troy’s answer came out harsher than he intended. “That might be because there was no wedding feast.”
“No wedding feast?” Justin’s brows rose high. “My dear chap, this sounds as if you’ve got yourself into a bloody scrape.”
Sighing, Troy rubbed his temple. “I apologize for sounding clipped. I…” He rolled his shoulders, then shrugged.
Drake reached up to grab Troy’s shoulder. He searched Troy’s face, undoubtedly noticing the dark rings under his friend’s eyes. “Never mind, old friend,” he said softly. “We’re here now and we’re here to stay for a while. As Jus has said, we’re here with bag and baggage.” His teeth flashed in a quick smile.
“And dogs.” Troy smiled back. “And I’m glad for it. Really. Let’s meet in the library after you two have restored your natural beauty.”
Drake lightly nudged Troy’s chin with his fist. “That’s my boy.”
“My lord!” An agitated Hill descended the stairs to the entrance of the Hall. “My lord!” His face beet red, he came to a skittering halt in front of his master. “My lord…” He took a deep breath.
Troy raised his brows. “Yes?”
“My lord,” Hill informed him in his best butler-voice, “the dogs have hunted down the Bear.”
Troy blinked. “The bear,” he echoed.
“No, no, my lord, the Bear.” Hill looked at him expectantly, then obviously felt compelled to elaborate: “The first Earl of Ravenhurst’s bear, my lord. It fell down.”
“Oh dear,” Drake said. “Weimaraners are bred to hunt bears and deer.”
“Then they’ll probably enjoy their stay at the Hall.” Troy felt his lips twitch. “Let’s hope they’ll leave great-great-grandfather’s deer heads on the wall.” The weariness lifted from his shoulders.
It was good to have friends.
~*~
The chill of the evening had settled on the land by the time Lillian slipped into the Hall through a side entrance. Her curls, liberally dotted with wilting daisies, whirled around her head like a cloud made of sunshine and the perfume of flowers. Smiling, Lillian twirled a brown lock around her finger. After a day spent out in the open, she felt strong and healthy as if all darkness had been wiped away from her world. Her feet hardly touched the stone stairs as she danced up to the little room under the roof. But when she threw open the door, she skittered to an abrupt halt, nearly colliding with the imposing figure of Mrs. Fitzpatrick, the housekeeper, fists on her rounded hips.
“There you are!” Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s nose quivered with indignation. “My Lord Ravenhurst has enquired for you.” Lillian’s eyes darted past the housekeeper to the comer where Nanette sat with her knitting needles. The old woman gave her a reassuring smile.
Lillian stood very still. She felt the warmth of happiness fade, while the outside world pressed into her little haven, reality intruding into her happy dream.
“Really, this is no fit behavior for the Countess of Ravenhurst! And no proper dress, no proper wardrobe at hand! Everything packed away! I had Millie go through the trunks and iron that green dress over there.” Mrs. Fitzpatrick waved her hand, pointing in the general direction of the bed, where a pale green evening gown was laid out. “As if the maids didn’t have enough to do with all the excitement and the guests.”
“Guests?” Lillian asked.
“Of course, guests. That’s why his lordship wishes for your presence in the dining room. Immediately!” Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s small, pale-lashed eyes narrowed. “And no proper dress ready! A shame this! A—”
“Mrs. Fitzpatrick, I think this is quite enough,” Nanette’s soft voice interrupted.
“Enough? Enough?” The housekeeper rounded on her. “The family is going to ruins. I wonder what the Dowager Countess would have to say to the behavior of your ward. Ashamed, she would be. I—”
“Leave.” Her hands curled into fists at her sides, Lillian interrupted the tirade in an icy-quiet voice. How dare this woman talk to Nanette like that? This woman would not bring back the darkness into their lives.
“What?” Mrs. Fitzpatrick turned to gape at her, her thin lips slightly opened.
Standing straight, her head raised, Lillian looked at the woman while anger flowed through her veins. She reveled in its heady power. “If I remember correctly, it was you, Mrs. Fitzpatrick, who assigned this room to me after Lord Ravenhurst made it clear that he does not want me in the family apartments.” Her lips lifted to form a chilly little smile. At Château du Marais she had had opportunity enough to study the fine art of demanding respect from the servants. “You must have known that the room lacks a proper wardrobe for my clothes. So it would appear this is entirely your fault.”
A mottled color rose in the woman’s face. “Well, I say!” she huffed.
Lillian took a tiny step toward her, all the while smiling down in that chilly, chilly way she had come to learn so well. “And in the future you will call me ‘my lady.’” Lillian deliberately intensified the smile. “For I am the countess. Your mistress. And you would do well to remember that.” Abruptly, she clapped her hands together and had the satisfaction of seeing the housekeeper flinch. “Now go.”
Mrs. Fitzpatrick scurried past her, a fat old goose with ruffled feathers. Lillian waited until the sound of footsteps receded down the stairs before she raised her eyes to look at her old nanny.
“Well done, chou-chou. Well done.” Chuckling, Nanette rose from her chair. “I really cannot stand the old bat.” Yet then she turned a worried eye toward the bed. “She is right, however—Lord Ravenhurst has demanded your presence downstairs. You should get ready.”
At the mention of her husband, Lillian’s anger drained away. “He has guests?”
“Friends of his, Hill said.” Nanette went over to Lillian and helped her with the buttons at the back of her dress. “The kitchen is in upheaval.” She gently tugged at a strand of Lillian’s hair. “Daisies?”
Hearing the amusement in the old woman’s voice, Lillian could not help smiling. She put her foot on one of the chests and started to undo the lacings of her muddied boot. “I am afraid I won’t have time to comb out my hair.” She straightened and wriggled her foot free of the boot.
Another tug at her curls made her look back over her shoulder.
“It looks very pretty, I think,” Nanette said, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “In any case, they are bound to have never seen anything like it ever before.” Her lips twitched. “My Lady Lillian of the Hundred Daisies.”
~*~
A short while later Lillian emerged from her room, clad in her pale green evening dress with the tiny, floral embroidering down the skirt. The white satin slippers as well as the long kid gloves were slightly rumpled, but then, Lillian detested the gloves anyway. Even now, her fingers itched and her skin felt uncomfortably damp. Impatiently, she tugged at the gloves while she was walking down the corridor to the main tract of the house and the main staircase. She did not want to go down the tower stairs and through the servants’ hallway and thereby risk running into the housekeeper once more.
Lillian sighed, and finally let the gloves be. Clasping her hands firmly behind her back, she walked down the big staircase with its intricately carved banisters. From golden frames against salmon-colored French wallpaper, stately men peered down on her, while the blue Persian carpet swallowed up the sounds of her steps. The further she went, the taller and more imposing the paintings became until at the bottom of the stairs they covered nearly the whole height of the hall, showing larger than life men in old-fashioned high wigs and proud poses, large golden chains on their chests.
Lillian’s hand flew up to cover the golden cross, which hung on a thin chain around her neck. The small Maltese cross had been a present from Aunt Louisa, who had insisted that Maltese crosses were all the fashion for demure, young maidens.
“My lady!”
At the sound of the butler’s voice, Lillian let her hand drop to her side. Her lips lifted automatically into the little smile she had perfected for social functions. “Good evening, Hill.”
“Oh, my lady.” He hurried toward her, a horse brush in hand. His hair was ruffled, and a hint of ruddiness stained his cheeks as if he had been exerting himself. “They have been looking for you all over the place, my lady.” He blinked rapidly several times. “Are these daisies?”
Lillian rubbed the tip of one satin slipper over the pale blue floor tiles. “I have been out in the gardens.” The color of the tiles reminded her of the delicate shell of a robin’s egg.
“I see.” Hill cleared his throat, then looked back over his shoulder at the first earl’s bear in the far corner of the hall. “I…” His eyes darted back to Lillian. “Shall I show you to the dining room, my lady? I believe Lord Ravenhurst is awaiting you there.”
“That would be very kind. Thank you.” Lillian followed him through the hall. When they approached the brown bear, its nose appeared to be slightly flatter than usual. And when they got even closer, Lillian noticed that one fluffy ear had a decidedly munched-on look to it.
She frowned. “Has something happened to the bear?”
“Yes, my lady,” Hill answered in dignified tones and held up the brush. “It has been hunted down.” He heaved a deep sigh, which seemed to indicate that all the weight of the world rested on his shoulders alone. Puzzled, Lillian followed him down the corridor. However, before she could question him further, he stopped and swung open one of the mahogany-colored doors with a flourish. “My lady.” He made a small bow.
“…married her in St. Paul’s?”
In the ensuing silence after her entrance, the echo of the unfamiliar male voice hovered in the air for several tense moments. Then two chairs scraped over the polished wooden floor, and the two strangers at the table scrambled to their feet.
Lillian’s eyes skimmed past them to the figure at the head of the table. The candlelight sparkled on his auburn hair, lent it a fiery life of its own. Her husband, the man who bore her mark on his chest, remained firmly seated. While she looked at him, he saluted her with his glass. “Ah, there you are, my dear. Have you finally managed to find your way to dinner?”
Lillian was only dimly aware of the two other men, who had turned to stare at Ravenhurst with twin expressions of faint shock on their faces. She cocked her head to the right, all the while watching her husband sip his expensive red wine.
He was good, yet not anywhere near good enough. The words “my dear” had nearly choked him, and the skin around his mouth was stretc
hed tight. Whatever charade he intended to play for the benefit of his friends, it would cost him dear.
A swift stab of compassion made her heart clench.
“Oh, my lady, never mind,” the handsome sandy-haired man hurried to say. “We came here unannounced, so the mistake is all ours.”
A mocking smile crossed her husband’s lips. “A fair St. George come to aid the damsel in distress.”
“Troy!” his friend protested.
Yet Ravenhurst continued, unperturbed. “My dear, your champion here is Drake Bainbridge, Viscount Allenbright. And on my left you have Justin de la Mere.”
“My lady.”
The two men bowed, and Lillian dropped into a curtsy.
The second man was as dark and sleek as a big cat. “It is a pleasure to meet you,” Lillian murmured.
“The pleasure is ours,” Lord Allenbright said smoothly. As if to show his agreement, Mr. de la Mere bowed again.
Lillian found them utterly charming. She gave them a shy smile before she glanced back to her husband. He still sipped at his wine, yet when their eyes met, he lifted a sardonic brow. Putting his glass back on the table, he gestured to the plates before them. “I hope you do not mind, my dear, that we proceeded to dine when your presence proved so elusive,” he drawled. “We will have another place set immediately.”
“That is very kind of you.” Lillian walked around the table to Lord Allenbright’s side to take the chair next to his. Officiously, he pulled it out for her. Yet when he did not help her being seated, Lillian turned her head to look at him.
He was staring at her hair.
She had forgotten about her hair.
A quick glance confirmed that all the men were staring at her. Even the servant who had chosen this moment to enter the room with a clean plate and cutlery, undoubtedly sent for by Hill, stopped and stared in wonder.
“My, my,” Ravenhurst purred. However, a catch in his voice rather spoilt the effect.
Lillian could have wept for him, but she had learned to act well. So she raised her brows, her face a careful mask of innocence. “Have you not heard? It is all the cry now, the look au naturelle.”