"I hope we shall enjoy many happy evenings," he responded, then watched with a faint enigmatic smile as she drifted up the stairs, her great pannier skirts swaying provocatively.
"You know, my boy, she does not mean anything by it," murmured Sir Brian, coming up to scan his profile uneasily. "She's like a playful kitten, is all."
Mystified, Chandler asked, "In what way, sir?"
"Why, her trifling attentions to young Falcon. I think she sought only to be kind. 'Tis seldom enough the fellow is invited into Society."
"Oh. Yes, I feel sure you are right, Papa." Sir Brian went away, wishing he'd said nothing. It was clear that his son, betrothed to the loveliest of the eligible ladies in the room, had not even noticed her rather naughty flirting. Shaking his head slightly, he wondered if he would ever understand the boy.
He felt rather too wide awake to at once seek his bed, but he was not of a mind to join Neville Falcon and those gentlemen who had settled down to cards. Instead, he wandered out to his beloved gardens. The moon was bright when it emerged from the clouds, dusting silver onto flower beds and walks; the sultry air was heavy with the scents of honeysuckle and jasmine, and the stream chattered its unending gossip. Seating himself on a favourite bench in front of West House, Sir Brian sighed deeply and allowed peace and beauty to envelop him and ease his rather jangled nerves.
Chapter 12
"Polite of you to have walked us home," said Morris, disposing himself on a sofa. "Could've found it ourselves, y'know."
Gordon Chandler closed the door of the blue and gold ante room in West House and crossed to a side table where were decanters and glasses. "A man who's about to become a benedick must polish his skill as a host," he said, pouring port wine. "I am merely practicing."
"More likely, you feared I might murder Morris en route here," said Falcon, accepting a glass and settling himself on a gold chaise.
"One strives to protect one's guests," Chandler said with a smile. "For instance, I noticed you only danced once."
Morris held his breath. He had suspected that Chandler had a motive for accompanying them here.
Falcon said coolly, "Yes. With your betrothed. She is a beautiful woman."
"I gathered you found her so. But I think you were unwise."
"Because I succumbed to temptation? Does that offend you?"
"I hope you may not pay the price."
Falcon's eyes narrowed. Always ready for a challenge, he waited tensely.
"You still limp slightly." Chandler raised his glass and his companions joined him in a silent toast. "I wish you will let my physician have a look at that foot."
"There is not the need," said Falcon. "When one ventures into rurality one must be prepared for disasters. Especially with Sir Gudgeon among those present."
Morris liked Chandler and, relieved, he said affably, " 'Tis a jolly beautiful rurality. Always wanted to see it."
"Then I am pleased you were able to come." Chandler glanced from one to the other. "Are you going to tell me now why you came?"
His brooding gaze on Morris, Falcon said, "I came to find out what you meant about my having writ you that stupid letter."
"And I came because Rossiter asked me to find out about this attack on you," said Morris. "D'you really think 'twas poachers?"
"Poachers!" Falcon gave a snort of decision. "Bird-brain!"
"Not always, dear boy," said Morris. "Rabbits sometimes, y'know."
Falcon muttered under his breath.
" 'Twas a rum business," said Chandler thoughtfully.
"One can but hope not," said Morris.
Incredulous, Chandler exclaimed, "You're not serious? Smuggling? What, right under our noses?"
Falcon drawled, "The imitation valet with whom I am presently afflicted tells me that your steward left—er, something to be desired."
Frowning, Chandler nodded. "What he did not leave was a number of crates and barrels." Both men looked at him curiously. He elaborated, "I found an unpaid bill among the many Durwood should have attended to. 'Twas for a dozen crates and as many barrels. I've had my people scouring the buildings and grounds, but be damned if I can discover any trace either of them, or of whatever they were intended to hold."
"Likely shipped already," said Falcon. "Your steward could have been storing supplies to sell and line his own purse."
Morris looked solemn. "Or perchance he simply looked the other way. 'The cuckoo finds a snug home without ever lifting a claw to build—' " He gave an alarmed yelp and dodged the cushion that was hurled at him.
"One of these fine days," snarled Falcon, "I'll raise a claw and cut off your damned stupid homilies forever!"
Frowning, Chandler said slowly, "Do you say that my steward was in cahoots with Free Traders? And that I was attacked because I stumbled onto some of the rogues lurking about?"
"Is a possibility." Falcon shrugged. "You've a large estate and a secluded cove with an old lighthouse to act as marker. Ideal for rum runners."
With a shade too much nonchalance, Morris enquired, "Any other nocturnal visitors?"
"Lord, I hope not!" Curious, Chandler asked, "Such as?"
Morris glanced at Falcon and said reluctantly, "Ross wondered… well, y'know, the newspapers were full of accounts of the attack on you. To read some of 'em one might fancy you to have languished at death's door. It—er, must have frightened your lady out of her wits."
Chandler said without expression, "So she told me. But Lady Nadia has no need to be a 'nocturnal visitor.' "
Falcon pointed out, "News has been known to reach France, you know."
"And Ross is wondering what my madcap brother may do if he hears those tales?" Chandler acknowledged. "He judges Quentin aright, but—Good God! Does he think those bastards are bounty hunters waiting for my brother to land here?"
Morris shook his head, "No use asking me, old boy. Ross can out-think me any day of the week."
"Young Jacob could out-think you any day of the week," observed Falcon cuttingly. "Still, it could be damned nasty, Chandler. Your brother's a wanted fugitive. Were he taken on your lands…"
Morris said gravely, "The charge would be high treason!"
"For which we all would pay with our heads." Chandler nodded. "Damned nasty, indeed. Fortunately, however, my father posted off a letter to Quentin at once, assuring him I was little damaged."
"Jolly good," said Morris.
"Always supposing he got the letter," qualified Falcon.
"Pay him no heed," said Morris soothingly. " Tis his greatest joy to pop a spider in the sherbet."
Chandler laughed, bade them good night, and left them.
Crossing to open the French doors Morris leaned against the jamb and watched Chandler's brisk stride.
"I'm for bed," announced Falcon, setting his glass aside. He took a step, swore, and muttered, "If, that is, I can negotiate the stairs."
"Hmm…" murmured Morris.
Falcon limped to his side. "I hear a rusty creaking emanating from your brain box. Could this denote anything of interest, I wonder? Or are you just ruminating with the rest of the cattle?"
"I like Gordie," said Morris. "Thought at first he held himself too much up. Don't. He's a good man. Kind of fella would stick through thick and thin. A bit like good old Ross, y'know. Or Furlong. Or—"
"Ye Gods! Are we to have a list of every gentleman in London save my unhappy self?"
Morris turned to him. "Are you unhappy, August? Gwendolyn said you was, but—"
Gritting his teeth, Falcon snarled, "You unmitigated clod! Had you a point to make about Chandler?"
"Oh. Yes. Well, I can't but feel sorry for him, y'know. 'All that glitters—' No, do not go berserk. I only meant… well, I wondered why he would have chose such a—a—"
"Shrew?" Falcon chuckled. "I think your 'good man' lacks experience in the petticoat line. And if the de Brette is a shrew, she's a lovely one. Besides, from what I hear, 'twas his sire's choosing, not his own."
"Arranged, eh? Pi
ty. No way out of it, I suppose. If he wanted a way out, I mean."
"I'd find a way. He won't, for in honour he cannot. There are advantages, my good block, to being a social outcast."
Morris sighed, and reached to pull the door shut. 'True. I don't envy him. And as for that simpering wart he'll gain as brother-in-law…" He made a face and secured the lock.
Alone in the silent garden, Sir Brian stared blankly after the disappearing figure of his son. He had almost hailed Gordon when he'd left West House. Only the fact that he was disinclined for more talk had restrained him. He wished now that he'd done so. He came to his feet and began to follow the path that wound towards the main building.
Whatever else, those two young fools were gentlemen, and would never have voiced such sentiments had they known they were overheard. He took a deep breath. They were jealous, that's what it was. Nadia de Brette was a darling; a lady of rare beauty, impeccable lineage, a comfortable fortune, and with a voice like one of God's holy angels. A damned fine catch for any man, and the perfect mate for Gordon. If he hadn't liked it, he should have spoken up! It was true he had balked a little when it had become necessary to point out that 'twas past time to publish the betrothal. He'd said he had no deep feelings for the lady. But when asked whether he disliked her or whether he cared for any other lady, the answers to both questions had been negative.
Sir Brian's steps slowed and he frowned uneasily. He remembered that he had been provoked when Gordon had said in a clumsy sort of way that he'd hoped to wed a lady he could really love. Such stuff! When he himself had stood at the altar with Marie they'd met only twice in their lives—and then with chaperones attendant! He'd been scared. So had she. But they had been contracted in their cradles and would not have dreamed of opposing the wishes of their parents. Lord knows, they'd been happy. He sighed nostalgically. Love had come after marriage. A love that continued to this day, God rest her sweet soul. He'd said as much to Gordon, and it had only brought about the mulish set of the jaw that he knew too well. That had really made him angry, and he'd pointed out that it was disgraceful and not the part of an honourable gentleman to draw back, especially since Nadia had loved him for years, and had refused all others knowing they were as good as betrothed. That had turned the trick. He could still recall how white and stunned Gordon had looked. To give the boy his due, there'd been no more show of reluctance after that, and he had behaved as a well-bred man should.
Sir Brian walked on, eager now to get to his bed. But he could not outdistance the knowledge that his heir would go to almost any lengths to please him. Or at least to avoid upsetting him. And he had become extreme upset during that particular confrontation. Still, it was all water under the bridge now, and everything would go well, he was sure. Gordon would live to thank him for choosing so unexceptionable a lady for his bride. Besides, the boy had never looked at another lady—not in a matrimonial way. Although… once or twice of late, he'd thought… He scowled. Nadia was right, by God! Mrs. Allington had been here entirely too long. She must finish by the end of this month and take herself off. His stride faltered. 'Twould mean taking Jacob too… Still, it would not do. The widow must go! And soon.
Ruth worked hard next day, determined to shut out her troubles. She heard carriages arriving with the guests, and a growing hum of merry chatter interspersed with laughter. Later, there was music when the minstrels came and wandered among the brilliant company, their songs adding to the festivities. Mr. Aymer sought her out in early afternoon, and asked if he could bring her some of the jellies or delicacies, but she noted he did not bring an invitation that she join the throng. She was saddened, yet relieved, for if Lady Nadia recognized her and mentioned Lingways someone was sure to know of it, and she would be unmasked as sister to the notorious Captain Jonathan Armitage. Gordon would know she had told him yet another lie—or at least withheld the truth. And if it was revealed that she had twin nephews and that Thorpe was here also… She shuddered.
The birthday cake was to be cut at four o'clock. It was a gigantic confection, requiring two footmen to carry it into the gardens, and according to tradition every worker on the estate was to be given a piece and a glass of punch and would join the guests in a toast to their master.
Ruth's prayer to be forgotten was doomed. She sensed Gordon's presence and stood very still, without turning to him.
He said quietly, "You must come. It is tradition, you see."
"No."
"My dear—you must. Everyone knows the custom. Already Miss Rossiter and Katrina Falcon have been asking for you. Everyone else is there."
Desperate, she faced him. He was formally clad in a coat of blue velvet richly embroidered with silver lace at the front openings and on the deep cuffs of the sleeves. A great dark sapphire winked in the laces at his throat, and a sapphire ring was on his bronzed hand. She thought he looked magnificent but rather weary. "Sir Brian did not ask me to attend," she said. "He sent me to fetch you."
"Gordon—I cannot! This old dress! And you know Mrs. Witterall thinks—"
"Do you suppose I care what she thinks?" His eyes slipped past her. "Gad! You've done a lot." With two long strides he had mounted the steps.
Ruth said eagerly, "Oh, yes. I'm so glad you can see it now. Look here. The shape of the cliff is different, no?"
"Yes," he leaned nearer, one hand on her shoulder. "You are quite right, by Jupiter! I'd—"
"So here you are!" Lord Vincent smiled up at them as they jerked to face him like two guilty children. "Your sire grows impatient, Chandler. Perchance you should admire the—er, painting… at another time."
The grounds had been transformed for the party. Little tables and chairs were everywhere, a marquee covered the area where were long tables heavy-laden with good food. The guests, like so many brightly hued butterflies, hovered about those tables, waiting for Sir Brian to blow out the six candles—one for each decade, he said—and from the mighty Mr. Starret to the lowliest gardener's boy, the household, garden, and stable staff gathered to offer their shy good wishes to the master.
Ruth stayed as far back as she could. Her heart contracted painfully when she saw that Lady Nadia was also far to one side, August Falcon's handsome head bent close to her ear, her eyes full of mirth as she peeped at him over her fan.
A cheer went up as Sir Brian blew out the candles. Gordon clapped him on the back. Chef, a portly French genius, condescended to help as Mrs. Tate and the kitchen staff began to cut and dispense slices busily. Soon, footmen and maids were bustling about with trays of the birthday cake. Champagne flowed freely, the guests drifted to various tables, and Ruth was seized upon by Katrina and Gwendolyn. Her protests were ignored and she was hurried to a small side table. Chandler carried over a tray of plates for them all, one of which, together with a glass of champagne, he put determinedly before Ruth. He went off to find his fiancee then, and Falcon wandered up to sit beside Katrina.
Ruth saw Chandler seat Lady Nadia at a nearby table and hand her a plate of the birthday cake. A vision of dainty beauty, all pink silk and lace, my lady held up a glass of champagne, laughing, and fluttering her long lashes at him.
And in that same moment, Ruth saw Thorpe playing camp or football with the gardener's boy. The gardener's boy was bigger than Thorpe, and more proficient at the game. His kick sent the ball hurtling high into the air past the smaller boy. Looking upward, Thorpe tore after it exuberantly. With a gasp of horror, Ruth stood. And as though Fate had decreed it, of all the laps, or all the plates on which the ball might have landed, it eluded Thorpe's clutch and thudded into the laden plate of my Lady de Brette, sending champagne and icing to shower her liberally, and awakening an instinctive laugh from the onlookers that swiftly died away.
My lady could bear some small embarrassments quite well. To be made to look ridiculous she could not bear. With a shriek she sprang to her feet. "Oh! You horrid, horrid! You evil little monster! How dare you!"
Trembling, poor Thorpe stammered, "T-truly, I am very—"
"Look what you have done!" screeched my lady, her face at that moment far from beautiful.
Chandler took out his handkerchief and removed a piece of icing from her chin. " 'Twas an accident, my dear," he said quietly. "I think—"
"It was deliberate!" She snatched his handkerchief and wiped gingerly at her cheek, her shrill voice keening through the spreading silence. "That vicious brat thought to revenge himself on me because I despise his ugly mongrel!"
Chandler scooped up the football and turned to the frightened child. "Take this, Jacob, and—"
"Yes! Take it!" Lost in fury, Lady Nadia snatched the ball and hurled it into the boy's face.
Ruth ran to take the weeping child in her arms.
Before she could speak, Chandler said in a voice of ice, "You forget yourself, madam! Jacob was trying to catch the ball, merely."
" 'Pon my soul!" she raged. "You see me abused and insulted and you take the side of this trollop and her brat, who—"
"I think you have said quite enough." He made an imperative gesture, and the minstrels who had been watching with hanging jaws, began to play hurriedly.
Lady Nadia's temper had quite overpowered her; she was much too angry now to realize the spectacle she was making of herself; too angry to see her brother bearing down upon her; too angry for anything but her need for revenge. Turning on Ruth, she shrilled, "You may think—" And she stopped, for a strong arm had clamped about her waist; a steely voice said in her ear, "Have done! You are behaving like any fishwife!"
Dizzied with rage, she gasped, "Fish—"
"Be—quiet!" Chandler hissed. "I'll remind you that this is a birthday party, madam. Your tantrum is upsetting my father!"
That iron arm was urging her inexorably toward the house. Everyone was staring—including her brother, a glint in his eyes she did not at all care for.
My lady burst into tears and went where she was led.
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