by Cara Elliott
The trickle of brandy burned a trail of fire down his throat. “A diavolo—women!” he muttered. “Even the most intelligent ones of your sex are hopeless romantics.”
“While you flaunt your disdain for any sort of sentimental feelings by drowning them in drink and mindless debauchery.”
“Please spare me the lecture on morality, Alessa. However shocking my life might appear to you, it suits me just fine.”
“Even if it is digging you an early grave?” asked his cousin. “I swear, I am not sure what will kill you first—the wine or a cuckolded husband.”
“It won’t be a husband.” Marco curled his lip. “My expertise with a pistol or a sword is as finely honed as my skills in the bedchamber.”
“A diavolo—men!” she exclaimed, throwing his own exasperated words back in his face. “Hubris is far more dangerous than bullets or blades.”
Tilting back his glass, Marco deliberately drained the rest of his drink in one flourish. “I’ll take my chances. Without risk, life would have few rewards.”
Alessandra’s mouth compressed in concern.
“Now, might we return to my earlier question regarding the Duke of Cluyne,” he went on. “Is there anything you might tell me about his character?”
She didn’t answer right away but rather took a few moments to place her new husband’s paintings back in the leather portfolio. “It still strikes me as such an odd request.”
“As you have taken pains to point out, my actions often defy logic or reason. That I should choose to attend a staid country house party is simply a quirk of fancy.”
Her eyes suddenly narrowed. “A party with European diplomats and noblemen… Has this anything to do with Lord Lynsley?”
“If it did, cara, I should not be at liberty to say so.”
As he had hoped, his cousin did not press the point. Though she had never been officially informed as to the true nature of Lynsley’s work, she suspected there was more to his minor government position than met the eye. On several occasions, the marquess had consulted with the ‘Sinners’ on some very arcane—and lethal—scientific questions.
Alessandra sighed. “I’ve only seen Cluyne from afar, so I cannot offer my own impressions. But Kate says the duke is a bit of a tyrant. He is very regimented in his thinking, and does not take kindly to having his authority questioned.”
“The clash of wills between your fellow ‘Sinner’ and His Grace must put the Battle of Borodino to blush,” quipped Marco. “From what I have witnessed, Miss Woodbridge has very firm opinions of her own, and she is not afraid to voice them.”
“She had to be strong,” said Alessandra somewhat defensively. “Her parents were both free spirits, so someone had to handle the practical details, lest the family finances sink in the River Tick. So yes, she is used to making her own decisions in life, and does not fear to defy convention. Nor does she shrink away from a challenge. But I sense that beneath the hard shell, Kate is not quite so tough as she appears.” Light glinted off her rings as she toyed with the ties of the portfolio. “It is a pity that the duke cannot seem to understand that, and try to reach out just a little.”
Recalling the intriguing depth of Kate’s aquamarine eyes, and the defiant tilt of her chin, Marco felt a strange little tingle in his fingertips. “I will be happy to extend a comforting hand while I am at Cluyne Close,” he teased. “Maybe two.”
“You?” His cousin made a rude noise. “Santa Cielo, I shudder at the thought,” she added. “Do me a great favor and stay away from her. She is not one of your doxies or jaded widows.”
Given his rakehell reputation, he supposed he deserved the scold, and yet Marco found himself nettled by her tone. Flicking a mote of dust from his sleeve, he flashed a wolfish wink. “You’ve just taken great pains to tell me that Miss Woodbridge can look out for herself. So why not let her tell me if my advances are unwelcome?”
“She’s only agreed to attend the party so that she and Charlotte may spend some time studying the exotic plant specimens in Cluyne’s conservatory,” explained Alessandra. “Fending off your flirtations will only be an unwelcome distraction.”
“Most ladies don’t find my attentions so onerous.”
His cousin slapped a palm to the tabletop, signaling an end to the discussion. “Kate isn’t like most ladies—a fact that you would do well to remember unless you want—”
“Want my testicolos fed to the Tower lion,” finished Marco. “Or was it the ravens?”
Alessandra wagged a finger.
“Don’t worry, cara. Your friend has nothing to fear from me during the coming fortnight.”
“What a magnificent vista.” As the entrance drive took a last turn and emerged from a copse of beech trees, Charlotte craned her neck to peer out of the carriage window.
“Isn’t it,” murmured Kate, reluctantly allowing her gaze to take in the view. “Cluyne engaged Capability Brown to redesign this section of the grounds. The woods were opened up, the gardens shifted to create a better symmetry, and a number of evergreen hedges were planted to add texture and color.”
“Your grandfather has excellent taste. Brown’s genius in landscape design is legendary.”
“The duke can afford the very best,” replied Kate, hoping her words didn’t sound too waspish. She drew in a deep breath and tried to dispel the twinge of resentment she felt every time she entered the manicured grounds of Cluyne Close. The money spent on just one of the ornamental statues that graced the lush gardens would have paid for the physicians and medicines needed in Naples…
However, it was hard not to be impressed with the duke’s country estate. Sunlight played over the lake at the bottom of the long, sloping lawns, looking like myriad tiny diamonds shimmering on a surface of azure blue velvet. Set in its center was a small island with a pale, perfectly proportioned marble folly built in the form of a classical Greek temple.
Kate shifted her gaze from the water’s edge, up through the manicured grass, the profusion of muted colors and graveled walkways to the manor house situated on the crest of the hill. ‘Castle’ was perhaps a better description, she decided, given the turreted towers and crenellated battlements that crowned the massive stone structure. Over the centuries, a succession of architects had somehow managed to make the additions and elaborations to the original Norman building work in harmony with each other. Seen from afar, with the afternoon sun setting the local honey-hued limestone aglow, the effect was dazzling.
“Perhaps I should have brought a pair of tinted spectacles,” said Charlotte dryly. “I might need them inside as well, so as not to be blinded by all the opulence.”
Knowing that her friend’s finances were stretched thin on account of her late husband’s gambling habits, Kate tactfully tried to put her at ease. Charlotte had a very sharp sense of pride, and Kate had a feeling that she was loath to accept any money from Ariel, even though her sister’s new spouse, Sir Henry Phelps, had a tidy fortune of his own.
“The diplomats of the party will all likely be trying to outshine one another. Thank God we can ignore them and spend our time here in more intelligent pursuits.”
Charlotte’s expression turned pensive as the manor house loomed larger and larger. “I knew your grandfather was wealthy, but I didn’t quite visualize how wealthy.” She made a wry face. “As you know, my gowns are all quite outdated, not that I give a fig for appearances. However, I do not wish to embarrass you.”
Kate made a rude noise. “I think you know me better than that.”
“You can always send up a tray to my rooms.”
“A far better idea is having our supper served in the conservatory, where we can dine in our work clothes while we scrabble around in the dirt.”
“I am looking forward to a tour of the glass pavilion,” said Charlotte, after venturing another look at the imposing bulk of Cluyne Close. “And the outer hothouses.”
“It will be light for several more hours, so I will show you around as soon as we are settled.”
Gathering up the books and papers that the two of them had been reading during the drive, Kate tucked them into a small satchel. “We will be quartered in the west wing, which is close to the conservatory.”
“Do most guests need a ball of string to find their way around?” quipped Charlotte.
“No, they have no need to copy Theseus in finding their way through the Minotaur’s labyrinth,” replied Kate sardonically. “The duke has servants enough to provide a private escort for anyone who needs one. He would probably have a fit of apoplexy if he saw a twist of twine sullying his perfect parquet floors and expensive—”
A discreet cough cut off any further sarcasm. “Now, my dear, do try to approach this visit as a pleasant interlude—”
“Rather than as a penance for my past sins?” she muttered.
Charlotte’s brows rose slightly. “You’ve done nothing to be ashamed of.”
Kate felt herself go pale.
Her friend appeared not to notice. “Sailing the seven seas was, to be sure, a rather unusual upbringing for a young lady,” went on Charlotte. “But you’ve acquired an admirable knowledge and understanding of the world. I should think that would make any grandfather proud.”
“Tell that to Cluyne,” retorted Kate. Seeing her fellow ‘Sinner’ frown, she quickly added, “Sorry—you are right, of course. I shall try to leave my petty resentments in Town and have a more… positive attitude.”
“You might surprise yourself and actually have a good time. Considering that a number of foreign diplomats are among your grandfather’s guests, the discussions about the peace conference in Vienna promise to be quite fascinating.”
“True,” conceded Kate. “Assuming we ladies are allowed to be present when they speak of serious subjects. Most of the really interesting conversation takes place after the ladies are asked to withdraw from the dining room, leaving the gentlemen to linger over their port and cigars.”
“Actually, that is usually the time they tell bawdy jokes and brag about their mistresses,” said Charlotte dryly. “So we really aren’t missing much.”
A laugh welled up in Kate’s throat. “Now who is being cynical?” she asked.
“That’s better,” observed her friend with an answering smile. “Let’s not start off our stay with a scowl.”
The carriage wheels crunched over the freshly raked gravel and came to a halt by the entrance portico. Charlotte looked up at the classical columns gleaming a mellow gold hue in the slanting sunlight, and then lowered her gaze to the procession of liveried servants coming to meet their arrival.
“Allow me, Miss Woodbridge.” The duke’s major-domo immediately reached for the bag.
Swallowing an inward sigh, she passed it over. She hated feeling coddled, but she had learned that argument only upset the servants. They had a very strict notion of propriety.
“Thank you, Simpson.”
“The baggage carriage arrived an hour ago and your maid is overseeing the unpacking for you and your guest.”
“Thank you,” she repeated.
“And His Grace is in the west study, awaiting your arrival.”
Another sigh, this one audible.
“William will escort you.”
“William is to be our twine, so to speak,” murmured Kate as the heavy oak-paneled door swung silently open and she and her friend fell in step behind the footman.
They passed through the elegant entrance foyer, the clicking of their shoes on the highly polished marble tiles echoing off the ornate plasterwork and gilt-framed paintings.
“This part of the house is only fifty years old,” said Kate as they proceeded down a long corridor. “The original Norman keep is part of the west tower. The east tower was added for symmetry in the seventeenth century…”
She continued the architectural history through what felt like an endless series of turns. Finally, the footman paused before a closed door and knocked discreetly.
A gruff voice bade them to enter.
Kate inhaled, trying to loosen the tightness in her chest. Would there ever come a day when she felt comfortable around Cluyne? Shaking off such musings, she angled a quick look at her friend. She had warned her of the duke’s imperious manner, but in the flesh, he was a formidable figure.
But then, Charlotte was not easily intimidated. Arthritic knees had slowed her step, yet she still carried herself with a regal grace. Tall and full-figured, she wore her hair wound in a severe chignon. The silvery strands framed an oval face dominated by a pair of piercing gray eyes and a long, thin nose. With such strong features, she would not be called beautiful, but rather handsome.
“Don’t just stand there, come in, come in,” barked the duke. He rose from his desk and clasped his big hands behind his back. “I trust you had a comfortable ride down from Town.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” replied Kate, quickly performing the introductions.
Her grandfather fixed Charlotte with a long, icy stare before inclining a curt nod. “Welcome to Cluyne Close, Lady Fenimore.”
“Thank you for the most gracious invitation, sir,” replied the widowed scholar with equal frost.
Cluyne’s eyes narrowed, as if he was wondering whether her words held a faint trace of mockery.
Kate repressed a smile. If the duke expected Charlotte to be cowed by his title and wealth, he was in for a rude awakening.
“I have heard a great deal about your collection of botanical specimens,” Charlotte went on. “And look forward to seeing them.”
“Hmmph.” The sound may have been a snort or simply a clearing of his throat. “Ah, yes, my granddaughter said you were one of the members of her scientific circle.”
“Indeed,” said her friend evenly. “You must be extremely proud of Kate’s accomplishments in the field of botany. Her recent essays on the Spice Islands have earned accolades from some of the leading scholars here and abroad.”
The duke’s bushy brows drew together.
“If you will excuse us, sir, I should like to show Lady Fenimore to her quarters,” said Kate hastily, hoping her friend caught the subtle hand signal to cease speaking of her intellectual achievements. For Cluyne, they were only further indication of her oddities. “And then take a quick turn of the conservatory and hothouses while the light is still good.”
“Of course.” He pursed his lips. “We dine promptly at seven. I ask that you be in the drawing room a half hour beforehand, in order to meet the other guests. Most of them arrived this afternoon, though a few will not be here until the morrow.”
“As you wish, Your Grace,” said Kate. Taking her friend’s arm, she drew her toward the door. “Until then.”
Chapter Seven
Muttering an oath as she glanced at the mantel clock, Kate scrubbed a smudge of dirt from her cheek and tugged at the tabs of her day gown. “Drat, why is it that time always seems to fly when you are engaged in something interesting?” As opposed to how slowly the seconds ticked by when you were listening to some boring aristocrat prattle on about his horses or his hounds.
“A good question,” answered her maid. “But at the moment, it’s not one that we are at leisure to examine.” Alice helped Kate into her corset and quickly did up the laces. “Lift your arms.”
The dark azure silk was as soft against her skin as the petals of the Javanese orchid she and Charlotte had been admiring. However, the flower’s hue had been a pale, pastel shade of pink with ivory edges…
“Now turn around.”
Still thinking about the rare bloom, Kate obeyed mechanically.
“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?” asked Alice after another few pokes and prods.
Her head jerked up. “Sorry, my mind was elsewhere.”
“Well, your body had better be in the drawing room in a quarter hour. Let us try not to antagonize your grandfather the first night we are here.”
“Right,” muttered Kate. She took a seat at the dressing table and folded her hands in her lap as her maid took up a brush and beg
an to arrange her hair. “Thank God you are a dab hand when it comes to moving quickly.”
“In my former line of work, speed was of the essence,” said Alice dryly through a mouthful of hairpins. “Do sit still.”
Heaving a sigh, Kate watched as her maid artfully threaded a ribbon through the twist of the topknot and loosened a few curls around her ears and the nape of her neck.
“There,” announced Alice, stepping back to observe her handiwork. “That smoky shade of blue sets off the color of your hair quite nicely. And as a finishing touch, I suggest you wear the pearl earbobs and necklace.”
Kate made a face but did not argue. The jewelry had been a birthday gift—a grudging one in her opinion—from her grandfather. The set had belonged to her late grandmother, and by all rights should have passed to her mother…
“Try not to look as if a sea monster is gnawing on your leg.”
Kate’s scowl quirked into a rueful smile. “I shall try to put my best foot forward tonight.”
Alice chose a paisley shawl, figured in pastel swirls of ivory and cerulean. “Well, try not to trip over your own tongue.”
“Thank you for the vote of confidence,” murmured Kate. “If I fall on my face, it certainly won’t be on account of your efforts.” She took one last peek at the looking glass and then rose. “I swear, you are a magician to have tamed these unruly curls.”
“Unfortunately, my powers do not include the ability to conjure up a magic carpet, so you had better start moving.”
A knock on the door punctuated the warning.
“That will be Charlotte.” Looping the shawl over her shoulders, Kate hurried into the corridor, wishing that Alice could cast a spell to make the hands of the clock spin like a whirling dervish and strike midnight.
“You look lovely, my dear,” said Charlotte as they headed for the stairs.
Kate fingered her heirloom necklace, the smooth lustrous orbs feeling cold and clammy against her flesh. “I seem to remember an old adage about casting pearls before swine.”
