"She received me rather nervously, I think," said Skogsrå. "Yet she is suggestible—oh, but extremely suggestible!—and she slipped into a trance quite readily."
The Duchess put a hand on his shoulder, leaned a little closer. She was suddenly very interested, very eager. "And when she awoke?"
"She awoke feeling refreshed, expressing her surprise at finding the treatment so simple and so pleasant. Her gratitude was touching," said the Jarl, with considerable satisfaction.
"Excellent," said the Duchess, no less satisfied. "For gratitude, you know, may easily turn to love. I am convinced that she will be yours, sir—so long as you continue to go on exactly as you have begun."
The Jarl made a careless gesture, indicating that he was not so certain. "There is still the matter of the cousin who has such a strong influence over Elsie. Though I do everything in my power to ingratiate myself, Miss Sera Vorder does not like me.
"Oh, she is always so polite," added Skogsrå, "but when she looks at me—I think if she were a man I would feel a little threatened."
The Duchess removed her hand. "We females can be dangerous, too, and you are foolish to underestimate us. Though this one, as you have rightly guessed, is quite young and powerless—except, of course, as she is able to influence Elsie."
The Jarl smiled. "But of course. And that being so, I cannot help but entertain an apprehension that she may know . . . something to my disadvantage."
"Nonsense," said the Duchess, leaning back against the cushions. She took the blue ape from his perch on the back of the sofa and placed him in her lap. "How could she indeed? There is nothing for her to know, for your behavior since you came to Thornburg has been entirely respectable. As for any indiscretions you committed before, I do not think there is a man of your years living who has not sown a few wild oats in his time."
Skogsrå made another wide gesture with his hands. He cleared his throat. "I do not speak of romantic entanglements. Perhaps I should have mentioned this before. When I was in Katrinsberg, there were stories; I do not know how they began. Perhaps because people noticed certain . . . eccentricities of dress." He crossed his legs, indicated the polished leather boots which he wore on even the most formal occasions. "There were tales of deformity, which, catching the public imagination, and growing more sensational as these things will, soon made my life so uncomfortable that I was obliged to leave the city much sooner than I had planned. Perhaps those stories have followed me here; perhaps Miss Sera has caught wind of them."
"Nonsense," repeated the Duchess. "If they had, I should certainly have heard of them, too." She continued, absent-mindedly, to caress the ape. "But it would not matter even if these stories of yours were the talk of Thornburg. For I can assure you that Miss Sera Vorder would be the last to credit them. She is such a practical girl, she would laugh them to scorn."
The Jarl knit his darkly penciled eyebrows thoughtfully. "Perhaps you are right. Yes, perhaps you are right."
He uncrossed his legs, leaned closer to the Duchess. "But now we come to the purpose of my visit: the medicine which I have promised to our sweet Elsie."
"Yes, I am glad that you remind me." The Duchess shooed her pet from her lap, rose from the sofa, and pattered across the room. She disappeared into the next chamber, reappearing a few minutes later, carrying a crystal flask about the size of her hand, encased in a delicate ormolu filigree.
"A drop or two, morning and evening, should be sufficient," she said, as she handed over the flask.
The Jarl slipped the bottle into an inside pocket of his coat. "She will not be harmed by this? I would not do anything to peril her health," he said very earnestly.
"Harm her—by the Nine Powers, no." The Duchess resumed her seat. "I want that no more than you do. If anything it will strengthen her blood. That, indeed, is the purpose for which the potion is principally used, and the other effects I mentioned are of secondary importance. You need not fear, my dear, that your bride will not be in the very best of health on the day you marry her."
The Jarl smiled thinly. "You are somewhat premature. I must first win the young woman's heart before I can aspire to her hand."
At this point, the Duchess's butler, a portly dwarf, came into the room and announced that Baron Skelbrooke was below, wishing to know if the Duchess would receive him.
"I shall be very glad to see Lord Skelbrooke," said the Duchess. "Admit him without delay."
The Jarl rose gracefully to his feet. "Then it is time for me to go. You will wish to entertain your . . . lover . . . in private."
The Duchess laughed her tinkling laugh. "Now you, my dear Jarl, are a trifle premature. That delectable young man is not yet my lover, although I have reason to hope—But you must not leave so soon. It would look suspicious if you were to leave just as he arrives. He might imagine there was more between the two of us than there really is, and that might put an end to our little romance before it even begins."
The Jarl smiled sardonically. "That, of course, would be a great tragedy."
"It would indeed," said the Duchess. "Take a seat, Lord Skogsrå, and attempt to make yourself look more comfortable. Besides, I have not yet told you—"
She did not finish her sentence, for just then Lord Skelbrooke entered the room, very smart in primrose-striped satin, a flowered waistcoat, and a cocked hat with a feather panache, which he promptly removed and tucked under one arm.
"My dear Francis . . . my very dear . . . how glad I am to see you," said the Duchess a little huskily, as she offered him a dainty hand to kiss. "I was just saying to Jarl Skogsrå—was I not?—that it has been an age since you called on me."
Skelbrooke kissed the palm of her hand, then the wrist, then claimed the other and repeated the process, in a manner which argued a far greater degree of intimacy between the two of them than the Duchess had admitted to the Jarl. "It was necessary for me to leave Thornburg for several days. I only returned this morning—and as you can see, I hasten to your side. But if you are determined to be cross, I bring a peace offering with me."
He took a slender book bound in lilac leather from his coat pocket and presented it to her with a little flourish. "A volume of my latest poetry. No one has seen it but you, Marella. You are the very first."
"How perfectly delightful," said the Duchess, accepting the volume. Her hand trembled as their fingers touched. She opened the book and leafed through the pages, reading a line or two from each one aloud. "But this is enchanting . . . Dare I hope that I was the inspiration for these charming verses?"
"Regrettably no," said Skelbrooke, laying a hand on the flowered waistcoat (which was very prettily embroidered with daisies and marigolds) somewhere in the region of his heart. "It is a poem in praise of the Art of Alchemy, personified as a beautiful woman. At the time I composed these verses, I had not the privilege of your acquaintance. That will account, perhaps, for certain deficiencies which you are kind enough to overlook.
"Had you served as my inspiration," he added, very low, very intimate, "I do not doubt that the poetry would have been far superior."
During this exchange, Skogsrå remained standing, with a look of growing discomfort written plain on his face. But at last he could endure no more. He cleared his throat. "I perceive that I am an intruder here. It is time for me to be on my way."
The Duchess dropped her seductive pose and shot him a fulminating glance. "Must you really?"
The Jarl inclined his head solemnly. "Alas, I must. With the Gracious Lady's permission, of course."
"Well then," said the Duchess, rising slowly to her feet. "I will see you out. You will excuse me, Francis?"
"With the greatest reluctance," said Skelbrooke. "Yet how can I deny you anything? Return as swiftly as you may, fairest of charmers, or I shall be desolate."
Outside in the corridor, the Duchess made sure to close the door behind her. "I vow you are an impatient fellow!" she said softly, linking her arm in Skogsrå's. "But I have not told you, yet, of the letter I received from
Vodni."
The Jarl scowled at her. "Vodni! It was against my advice you chose to employ him. He is too fond of his own way, that one. If he troubles you now, it is no fault of mine."
"He does not trouble me in the least," said the Duchess, as they descended the long curving staircase to the ground floor. "In his capacity as Secretary to the Duke he is absolutely invaluable. Moreover, he has recently managed to uncover information which may prove to be of the greatest use, information so startling that—well, it may all come to nothing, after all. But you can aid me in judging the value of this information, by confirming what Vodni tells me."
The Jarl's scowl faded, to be replaced by an expression of deep interest. "I exist but to serve you," he said.
By this time, they had reached the foot of the stairs, and the Duchess rose up on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. "You may begin," she said, "by going to a certain bookshop not far from the river and asking to speak to the proprietor . . ."
Left to his own devices in the Duchess's sitting room, Francis Skelbrooke remained where he was, in the same languid pose, only so long as he heard the voices of the Duchess and Skogsrå in the corridor outside. But once their voices faded, he moved swiftly, through the connecting door and into Marella's bedchamber beyond.
He paused for a moment, just inside the door, surveying the room with an amused and appreciative eye. The Duchess's bedchamber was an intensely feminine room with a seductive look of elegant disarray which (he suspected) was more likely the result of precise calculation on her part than any carelessness on the part of her servants. The gilt and ivory bed was unmade—which was to say, that the silk comforters had been neatly turned back and the satin pillows plumped up invitingly—ruffled petticoats, lacy pantelets, and other items of intimate apparel were scattered across the floor or draped over chairs; a pair of crystal goblets and a decanter of red wine had been casually arranged on a table by the bed. Despite himself, Skelbrooke stooped to pick up a dainty embroidered glove and hold it appreciatively to his nose. Like all her possessions, Marella's glove was deliciously perfumed.
Then, conscious that he wasted valuable time, he dropped the glove and began to search the room in earnest. The dressing table was overflowing with scent bottles, pouncet boxes, and little porcelain jars containing cosmetics. A sofa by the window contained a hat, two pairs of shoes, a pair of silk stockings, and other small items. He realized the room was too large and too cluttered for him to make a thorough search before the Duchess returned. Unless—
He knew that he would have to risk it. He reached into his waistcoat pocket and drew out a slim metal disk attached to a short silver chain. The disk was made of lead and engraved with kabalistic symbols—it was a talisman consecrated to the Planetary Intelligence known as Sadrun, the keeper of secrets, the finder of hidden things. Holding the talisman before him like a pendulum, Skelbrooke moved slowly and methodically around the room.
At the north end of the bedchamber, the pendulum started to swing wildly. Skelbrooke took two more tentative steps, and the talisman reacted even more strongly, describing a larger arc with every swing it made. Two more steps and he was facing the wall. He gathered the disk and the chain up into his hand, spoke a word to deactivate the pendulum, slipped it back into his pocket, and began to examine the wall.
Painted in pastel shades and decorated with scrollwork and cherubs done in stucco, the north wall of Marella's bedchamber was the perfect location for a secret panel or hidden cubbyhole. Skelbrooke smiled a trifle ruefully. He did not anticipate anything along that line here—he could expect something more ingenious from the Duchess.
He transferred his attention to a decorative table done in ebony and gold that stood against the wall. An assortment of trinkets, fans, note-cards, and the like was scattered across the table—and one other object, in stark contrast to the rest of that frivolous room: an old prayerbook bound in pale ivory leather.
Skelbrooke stared down at the antique missal. That Marella attended church every Sunday he knew—it was, after all, the fashionable thing to do—but that the Duchess kept a prayerbook in her bedchamber lest a sudden pious urge seize her and an overwhelming desire to say her prayers arise in the middle of the night—this possibility Skelbrooke did not seriously contemplate.
But perhaps . . . perhaps it was no common prayerbook. Knowing what he knew of the Duchess, it occurred to him that the rites this volume contained might be of a darker, more occult nature. He picked up the book and began to leaf through it.
A cursory examination convinced him that the volume was exactly what it appeared to be: a standard book of devotions such as might be handed down in any family, and any respectable woman in Thornburg might be expected to carry to church. He was about to close the book and put it down when he noticed that one of the pages was thicker than the rest. With growing excitement, he carried the prayerbook over to a window and held the page up to the light. It was not one piece of paper but two, glued together along three sides, with the fourth side secured by the binding, and what might be a third piece of paper or parchment inserted in the pocket between the pages.
Aware that the Duchess might return at any moment, he removed a stickpin from his lacy neckcloth. The pin had an ornate golden head, but the body was made of hard steel, in the form of a miniature stiletto, honed to a razor sharpness. He used it to make a slit in the pocket. He slid his fingers between the two pages and extracted a frail piece of parchment, which he slipped, unread, down the front of his flowered waistcoat. Then he moved swiftly across the room and carefully placed the book, exactly as he had found it, on the little ebony and gold table.
By the time the Duchess returned to her sitting room, Skelbrooke was there before her, standing by a window, staring pensively down at the garden below.
He adjusted the golden stickpin in his exquisitely arranged neck-cloth. "I am afraid I arrived at an inopportune moment. Indeed, I feel the awkwardness quite keenly and can only hope that you will accept my heartfelt—" he began, only to have his apology suppressed by a small white hand placed over his mouth.
"It is Skogsrå who is awkward. I am so glad you arrived when you did," said the Duchess. "In truth, I find him rather disagreeable, and only tolerate him for the sake of the good he may do my poor Elsie. But do not play the fop with me, Francis. It is amusing in company, I own, but in private I prefer you more natural . . . more earnest. That is your true nature, is it not? That quiet intensity I have seen from time to time"
"You are very perceptive," said Skelbrooke. "You have found me out. And yet, we are not really so very well acquainted."
Taking him by the hand, she drew him over to her couch. "Then it is time we improved our acquaintance. Long past time," she said, in the same husky voice she had used before. "Tell me something about yourself: where you were born . . . how old you are."
Though uncomfortably aware of the stolen parchment he wore inside his waistcoat behind the daisies and the marigolds, Skelbrooke forced himself to relax. "I was born on my grandfather's estate near Lundy, some four and twenty years ago.
The Duchess raised an eyebrow. "So young as that? No, I do not really doubt your word. You certainly have the appearance of a young man, a boy even, but there is something in your eyes, a look that usually comes with age . . ."
"It is dissipation, Gracious Lady, that has made me old beyond my years," he said, with such a mournful air that the Duchess could not help laughing at him.
"But now you are teasing me. Everyone in Thornburg knows you to be the most temperate of men!"
Skelbrooke shrugged his shoulders. "As to that, I am addicted to certain vices which I do not elect to practice in the presence of . . . ladies. Hence, my frequent absences from the town."
The Duchess began to look just the tiniest bit bored. "I suppose you mean cock-fighting and other tedious masculine pastimes. We will not speak of them, if you please."
"I do not mean cock-fighting . . . or other tedious masculine pastimes," replied Skelbrooke. "That is:
I must confess to an insatiable appetite for bloodshed, but the torture of brute beasts has never amused me."
"Ah," said the Duchess, her interest reviving. "You fight duels, do you? Have you killed many men?"
"I have killed scores of them," said Skelbrooke. "And there used to be a practice, among wild young men of good family, to ride the Imbrian countryside in the guise of highwaymen, and rob carriages and mail coaches . . . merely for the thrill of the thing."
The Duchess was smiling now, a warm intimate smile. He was not certain whether she believed him or not, but at least he was keeping her amused.
"Heavens above!" said the Duchess. "I believe that I have fallen into the hands of a rascal. And tell me this . . . among your other vices, have you perhaps experimented with . . . the more intricate forms of sexual dalliance?"
Skelbrooke gave a rueful shrug of his shoulders. "One does one's best. But as I am not yet five and twenty, I fear you might find my experience somewhat limited in that regard."
"Your honesty is refreshing," said the Duchess. "I despise a braggart."She moved closer, so that she was leaning on his shoulder. "Fortunately, there are some lessons—given the right teacher, the right pupil—where it is as pleasant to instruct as it is to learn."
The lacy neckline of her dressing gown had slipped very low, revealing a lovely pair of shoulders and a seductive display of soft white bosom. Her lips were slightly parted, her breathing was irregular, and her perfume, as Skelbrooke bent his head to kiss her, was sweet and intoxicating. Her mouth, as he had expected, was warm and inviting—
Then two things happened to mar his enjoyment: For one horrifying moment another face swam before his eyes, the face of a woman equally lovely, who had also a taste for younger lovers—and whose beautiful body had been the occasion for trespasses far worse than any mere sins of the flesh. There was also (less traumatic, but of rather more practical significance) a faint crackling sound proceeding from inside his waistcoat, reminding him of the parchment concealed there.
Goblin Moon Page 12
