‘And if by that,’ replied his Grace, casually drawing up a chair and giving the full skirt of his black brocade coat a practised flick as he sat down, ‘you mean that I’m interrupting your game, you are perfectly right. I am. I have a firm belief that one’s friends have a duty to share one’s misfortunes.’
The Marquis grinned. ‘You hear that, Jack? He needs cheering up. Tell him a bawdy story.’
Mr Ingram was busy counting up points. ‘You tell him one. Devil take it - you beat me!’ He threw down the pencil and leaned back in his chair in mock disgust. Then, ‘Or better still, let him tell us one. Come on, Rock – what’s the latest gossip?’
The Duke sighed. ‘Nothing new,’ he said regretfully. ‘Depressing, isn’t it?’
‘It must be,’ agreed Amberley sympathetically. ‘And mentally taxing too, I shouldn’t wonder. What will you find to talk about?’
Rockliffe surveyed him from beneath mocking lids and then replied with a single, pleasantly-delivered word of explicit vulgarity.
His lordship laughed. ‘You’ve met Mistress Vernon’s parrot.’
‘Yes.’ The Duke raised his glass to the light and examined it meditatively. ‘A singularly ill-mannered bird. I am not enamoured of it. It … er … spits.’
‘It what?’ asked Jack.
‘Spits,’ obliged Amberley. ‘And does it spit at you, Rock?’
‘It spits at everyone,’ came the pained reply. And then, ‘Though one cannot but wonder how you would know that when you never call in Jermyn Street?’ He paused and when the Marquis merely grinned at him, added, ‘One also wonders if it did not spit at the estimable Mr Garfield as he knelt at the divine Rosalind’s feet.’
Just for an instant, the candlelight danced oddly before Amberley’s eyes and the cheerful sounds of the room became muffled, like things heard under-water. Then the world righted itself and he heard Jack say, ‘Do you mean Lewis Garfield has actually offered for her? I never thought he’d work up the nerve.’
‘And was he accepted?’ asked the Marquis, carefully remote.
Rockliffe considered the sudden absence of amusement in his friend’s voice and the hint of strain in his eyes. They did not surprise him but, even though he felt a certain sympathy, he couldn’t resist one tiny jibe.
‘My dear Dominic – I thought you disapproved of idle gossip?’
Amberley said nothing. Jack glanced at him and drew a sharp breath, his gaze widening suddenly. Then he turned back to the Duke and said easily, ‘Well, I don’t – so tell me. Has she accepted him?’
A faint smile curled Rockliffe’s mouth. ‘Dear Jack. Always so good.’ He sighed. ‘No, my loved ones. To the best of my knowledge, she has not accepted him and he is now drowning his sorrows in the other room.’
The icy constriction in Amberley’s chest eased a little. He said expressionlessly, ‘I doubt you had this from Garfield himself. He’s not exactly a bosom-friend of yours.’
‘True. But one hears things, you know.’ The Duke sought in his pocket for his snuff-box. ‘I imagine the lady was perfectly polite – but, one hopes, extremely final. Dear Lewis may have a great deal of money but he is totally bereft of either wit or charm. On the other hand, he is undoubtedly a great improvement on previous offers.’ He smiled blandly at Amberley and, flicking open the silver box with one long finger, held it out to him. ‘De Lamerie – circa 1740, I suspect. Quite pretty … though a trifle heavily chased. But possibly you do not admire the use of the rococo in so small an object?’
Ignoring both snuff and box, the Marquis said abruptly, ‘What previous offers?’
Without undue haste, Rockliffe passed the box to Mr Ingram and then helped himself from it with a languid air. ‘I believe there have been two,’ he said at length. ‘And though Lord Philip did not, for obvious reasons, reveal the names of these unfortunate gentlemen, one might hazard a tolerably reasonable guess. Fortune-hunters and gamesters, both.’
‘Ludo Sterne,’ said Jack promptly, ‘and … Marcus Sheringham?’
‘My thoughts precisely. How nice,’ said his Grace simply, ‘to have them so beautifully endorsed. You’ll have guessed, by the way, that these two were also rejected – but by his lordship, who didn’t consider them worthy to approach his sister. In which, of course, he was entirely right.’
Frowning at the emerald on his left hand, the Marquis said, ‘You say Vernon told you this himself? Why?’
Rockliffe took his time about answering. His private suspicion was that Lord Philip had hopes of seeing his sister a Duchess but this wasn’t a thought he wanted to share, so he said negligently, ‘I imagine he told me because, some time ago, I took the liberty of dropping a mild hint in his ear with regard to Sheringham.’
‘Again – why? Marcus Sheringham’s no fortune-hunter.’
‘Unfortunately, he is. You’ve been away for nearly a year, Dominic. During that time, Sheringham’s love-affair with the dice-box - combined with some catastrophic investments - has brought him to the brink of ruin. If rumour is to be believed, half of his lands are now mortgaged – and Rosalind Vernon is not the first heiress he’s tried to win.’ The Duke paused. ‘And then, of course, there was the Evangeline Mortimer scandal.’
‘I remember that,’ offered Jack. ‘But for God’s sake, Rock – it was years ago.’
‘It was years ago,’ agreed Rockliffe, toying with his snuff-box, ‘but people still remember – as you’ve just proved. And it lingers on because only two people – one of whom has apparently taken to the heather - know what actually happened.’ He looked at Amberley. ‘Which reminds me. Rumour has it that Francis Devereux is in Paris.’
Amberley shook his head. ‘I doubt that. I’ve just spent the best part of a year there – and the place is littered with my mother’s relatives. If Devereux was there, I’d know.’
‘Perhaps. Or perhaps – having fled the country under a cloud – he’s taking care not to be found.’ Rockliffe leaned back and reached for his glass. ‘But I digress. We were discussing la belle Rosalind’s disappointed suitors. And the question one cannot help but ask oneself, is which of the flower-and-verse offering multitude will declare himself next.’
Jack grinned. ‘Well, don’t shatter my illusions by saying you don’t have a theory!’
‘I do, of course,’ the Duke admitted slowly. ‘But I fear it’s unlikely to prove popular. I am inclined to nominate young Rayne … or possibly Robert Dacre.’
Mr Ingram snorted derisively. ‘Dacre? Not a chance. And she’d never take him.’
‘Quite. Rayne, on the other hand … perfectly eligible and one of Lord Philip’s friends … who knows?’ Rockliffe looked across at Amberley and raised one enquiring brow. ‘No comment, Dominic?’
‘None.’ The Marquis rose from his seat with lithe fluidity. ‘Except to say that I’m going home and to bid you both goodnight.’ And with a slight nod and a briefly mechanical smile, he walked away.
Jack watched him go, a concerned frown shadowing his pleasant face. He said, ‘He’s in love with her, isn’t he? I had no idea – but I suppose you knew?’
‘Yes.’ The Duke smiled faintly. ‘I’ve known since the first time I met her. But I’m not quite the crass oaf you imagine. For some reason, Dominic is holding himself aloof and it seemed to me that it’s time he ceased doing so – hence what I said. Or some of it, anyway.’
Mr Ingram eyed him uncertainly. ‘And she?’ he asked. ‘Has it occurred to you wonder if she returns his regard?’
‘Naturally.’ His Grace picked up the cards and, shaking back his ruffles, began dealing them with casual expertise. ‘But you really can’t expect me to divulge quite all my secrets, you know.’ He spread his cards and smiled urbanely. ‘Will you declare?’
*
Not for the first time in the last three months, the Marquis of Amberley passed a night pacing his library floor. The first shock of Rockliffe’s disclosures had gone, leaving behind a bleak sense of temporary respite – for while the thought of Robert Dacre
was easily dismissed, Justin Rayne and others equally eligible were not.
The fact that Rosalind had rejected Mr Garfield was some comfort – but it made little difference to his lordship’s basic problem. All these weeks he had been running very fast in order to stand still and he was no nearer now to his goal than he had ever been; the hour, so long awaited, was upon him and it found him unprepared. All the poise and assurance he’d taken for granted throughout his adult life evaporated like mist beneath the growing dread he had of confession. He could not make the decision to say what must be said; and he despised himself for it.
The situation, then, was as fixed as the pole-star and as blatant. In addition to the requisite courage, one needed some small hope that one’s feelings might be returned; and, since one could not, in honour, pay court without being sure one could offer marriage – nor offer marriage without first laying bare one’s dark burden of guilt, there was no chance for such hope to be realised. The wheel, it seemed, had turned full circle.
‘Oh God!’ said the Marquis aloud to the empty room. ‘What in hell’s name is the matter with me? If I can’t do better than this, I deserve to be bloody miserable!’
Unthinking, his feet had carried him to the escritoire that occupied one of the window embrasures and, on impulse, he pulled open a drawer and withdrew a large sheet of parchment. For a long time he stared down without really looking at it. He did not need to see it for he knew what it was. The collected verses of another Marquis, some of whose life story he had read aloud at Oakleigh … all laboriously copied out in his own sloping hand from a torn and faded folio. They had been meant for Rosalind; something he had thought she would like to have. Only he had not given them to her, held back by the knowledge that someone would have to read them to her and conscious that he wanted that someone to be himself. So here they still were.
Slowly, his eyes focused on the page and, quite at random, he began to read. The stanza was by no means new to him and so it was not that which caused his gaze to sharpen suddenly or made him go back to re-read.
‘He either fears his fate too much
Or his deserts are small,
That puts it not unto the touch
To win or lose it all.’
And there it was. No blazing comets or strange and potent omens. Just a message from a man long dead. Amberley laid the parchment back on his desk … and smiled.
*
Isabel looked a little wistfully at the elegant scroll tied up with violets and silver ribbon that the butler placed in Rosalind’s hands and then, with dawning amusement, at the expression of resignation on its recipient’s face.
‘Oh – Rose!’ she laughed. ‘You might at least wait until you hear what it says – and it’s quite the prettiest one you’ve had.’
‘Is it?’ Mistress Vernon was noticeably enthusiastic. Her fingers delicately explored the flowers and she bent her head to smell them. ‘Violets, are they?’
Isabel allowed the footman to take her cloak and agreed that they were.
‘Oh God,’ said Rosalind flatly. ‘It’s going to be another ode to my eyes – I know it. Why do they do it?’
Isabel abandoned all thoughts of sorting out the fruits of their morning’s shopping and ushered Rosalind into the parlour, away from prying ears.
‘Well, I suppose it is a little tactless. But –‘
‘Tactless?’ echoed Rosalind. ‘It’s asinine! But I could put up with that if only they weren’t all so incredibly silly. O Goddess mine, whose purple eyes doth mine unwary heart capsize,’ she parodied disgustedly. ‘I ask you – what man of sense could write such stuff without realising that, at best, it will only make me laugh.’
Isabel sat down and arranged her wide, pink and cream striped skirt with a thoughtful air.
‘None, perhaps. But I should think that – that if one cared for a gentleman, one wouldn’t laugh. No matter how bad his poetry.’
The violet eyes widened a little. ‘No. I suppose not. I’ll admit that that aspect of it had never occurred to me. But does Phil send you this sort of … or no. It’s not his style, is it?’
‘No.’ Isabel looked down at her hands. ‘I doubt if it would ever occur to him.’
‘Do you wish it would?’
The bluntly phrased question caught Isabel unawares and she lost herself in a tangle of evasive half-sentences.
‘Don’t be shy,’ said Rosalind. ‘I promise not to tell anyone. Would you like Philip to address sonnets to your left eyebrow?’
A wavering smile touched the corners of Isabel’s mouth. Then she said simply, ‘Yes. I’d like it very much indeed. But the chances of his doing so are about as great as those of – of Rockliffe addressing such a one to you.’
Recognising a gallant attempt at levity, Rosalind responded by holding out the violet-adorned scroll. ‘Don’t speak too soon. This might be the one.’
Isabel took it and sliding off the ribbon, opened it out. Her eyes scanned it rapidly and then she looked, awestruck, across at Rosalind.
‘It’s not from Rockliffe. It’s from Lord Amberley.’
‘Amberley?’ Shock stole Rosalind’s breath for a moment. Then, uncertainly, ‘You’re joking, surely? He wouldn’t … would he?’
Isabel laughed. ‘No. It’s from Amberley and it is poetry. But he didn’t write it.’
‘Oh,’ said Rosalind, lamely. ‘Then who did?’
‘Someone called James Graham. His lordship seems to have copied it out and it’s very, very long.’
‘Oh!’ said Rosalind again but differently. ‘James Graham was the Marquis of Montrose and we were reading about him at Oakleigh. How kind of Lord Amberley to remember! But I wish he’d … ‘
‘Yes? You wish he’d what?’
‘Oh – nothing. It’s just I’d have liked him to read it to me himself … but it doesn’t matter. Will you do it for me?’
‘I thought you’d never ask,’ said Isabel candidly. And, clearing her throat, she looked down at the lines of verse and began.
‘My dear and only love I pray
This noble world of thee … ‘
And stopped again. The brown gaze settled in awed fascination on Rosalind’s face.
‘Goodness! I think he should have come himself!’
Rosalind grinned. ‘He didn’t write it, remember. Go on.’
So Isabel went on and soon began to realise that those first lines were somewhat misleading for, if this was a love-poem, it was unlike any she had ever read. And then she arrived at the fifth verse and was in doubt again.
‘But if thou will be constant then
And faithful of thy word
I’ll make thee glorious by my pen
And famous by my sword.
I’ll serve thee in such noble ways
Was never heard before;
I’ll crown and deck thee all with bays
And love thee evermore.’
She paused and then said lightly, ‘I think that’s probably the most beautiful declaration I’ve ever heard.’
‘Yes.’ An odd smile lit Rosalind’s eyes. ‘But that isn’t why Lord Amberley sent it.’
‘Is it not?’ Isabel leaned back in her chair and surveyed her future sister-in-law with an air of mild discovery mixed with impish retaliation. ‘And do you wish it was?’ she asked.
*
It was that night after dinner that Lord Philip seized the opportunity of their first evening at home inside a week and embarked on what he intended to be a frank and thorough exploration of his sister’s attitude to matrimony.
‘Lord Rayne,’ he said without preamble, ‘has asked my permission to pay his addresses to you.’
Rosalind’s mind was far away but she heard the words and replied to them with an ease that caused scarcely a ripple in the flow of her thoughts. ‘No.’
‘No?’ echoed Philip. ‘What do you mean – no?’
She stirred reluctantly. ‘I mean that I won’t marry him. But I don’t mind telling him so myself if you would pre
fer it.’
The total lack of interest in her tone roused his lordship to indignation.
‘Generous of you! But is it too much to ask what’s wrong with Rayne?’
‘Nothing,’ replied Rosalind patiently, ‘that I can think of. But I don’t want to marry him.’
‘Why not? I understood you turning Lewis Garfield down – I don’t like him much myself. But Rayne’s a good fellow and heir to an earldom. You can’t just keep on refusing perfectly good offers for no particular reason.’
‘Actually, I can. I like Lord Rayne – but not well enough to live with him for the rest of my life.’
‘Then who,’ he demanded sarcastically, ‘are you going to marry? Rockliffe?’
A slow smile curled Rosalind’s mouth.
‘You’re taking a lot for granted. He hasn’t asked me.’
‘But if he did?’
The smile grew infinitely wicked.
‘You can’t seriously expect me to answer that, can you?’
Lord Philip eyed her with gloomy exasperation as she sat idly turning a roll of parchment between her hands.
‘What have you got there? Another love-lorn lyric?’
There was a brief pause and then she said placidly, ‘No. Isabel read some of it to me earlier this afternoon and I thought you might be persuaded to finish it.’
‘I doubt it,’ he replied sourly. ‘What is it anyway?’
‘Some verses written by Montrose. Lord Amberley sent them. And don’t jump to conclusions,’ she advised swiftly. ‘His lordship read Wishart to me at Oakleigh and he sent the verses because he thought they’d interest me. And if you can bring yourself to set aside your idiotic prejudices for a moment, it’s possible that they would interest you too.’ She held out the scroll. ‘Well?’
For a moment, his lordship hesitated and then he reached out and took it with a reluctant grin. ‘Very well – you win. Temporarily. Where shall I begin?’
If anyone had told Philip that he would enjoy reading poetry to his sister and then discussing it, he would not have believed them; but the fact remained that he did enjoy it and, at the end of an hour, his mood was so much improved that Rosalind was emboldened to ask a question which had been in her mind for some time.
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