The old man beamed at her and she thought she saw a glimmer of approval in Benedict’s eyes too. Ah, this was a way to reach him perhaps. He loved the place.
“When was it built?” she asked him, unsurprised when he gave her the answer without hesitation.
“The earliest parts of it were built by King Ecgberht of Wessex in the ninth century but it was extensively added to in the sixteenth century. Sylvester’s father remodelled the North front to a Palladian design in seventeen forty nine and grandfather commissioned Capability Brown to design the Park and gardens some fifty years ago. He also added the picture gallery which you really must see. It’s quite wonderful.”
Phoebe watched, enchanted as Benedict spoke about the Court. His whole face became animated, his eyes warmer and full of enthusiasm. It was such a startling change from the severe, proud man she had encountered up until now that she caught her breath. Yes, she saw the real Benedict now. This was who he really was, if only he would remember it.
“I do hope that you will give me a tour, Benedict,” she said, knowing full well he’d be unable to refuse in front of his mother and uncle, no matter how badly he wanted to. The warmth fell from his eyes and his face shuttered up but he gave a curt nod.
“It would be my pleasure,” he replied, sounding as though he’d rather stick pins in his eyes. Phoebe bit back a grin and waited for the carriage to rock to a stop.
Once Benedict had handed her down from the carriage Phoebe could only stand and stare. Though it wasn’t only the magnificence of the building that struck her but the many staff and footmen who went about their business or simply stood looking aloof and rather formidable. The one exception to this was the butler who gave her a surprisingly warm smile as he welcomed her to Grizedale Court.
He was a tall man, perhaps in his fifties, with thick dark hair, greying at his temples
“Well, Keane?” Sylvester demanded of him. “How many damned parasites in residence, eh?”
Keane didn’t blink at this description of his master’s family and merely went on to list the guests. “Lord and Lady Rutland are here and Viscount ... I beg your pardon the Marquess of Saltash arrived a few moments ago with a Mr Wilfred Spalding.”
Sylvester snorted in disgust and the way in which the butler pronounced this last name led Phoebe to believe that he in no way approved of the man. Lord Rutland must be Sylvester’s youngest son, John, as the old man had given her a brief family tree the day before. The new marquess now, after his father’s recent death, was his grandson, Harold. Neither men seemed to have gained Sylvester’s affection much less his respect and he had advised her to keep out of their way.
A woman hurried out of the house at this point and ran to kiss Sylvester’s cheek.
“Ah, there you are, Lizzie, want you to meet Phoebe Skeffington-Fox. A cousin of Ben’s here.”
Phoebe saw the slight grimace Benedict gave at this description but ignored it and smiled at the woman who was tall and slender with the family’s trademark dark hair and green eyes, though hers were more hazel than the bright emerald of Sylvester and Benedict. She was perhaps thirty and had a nervous look to her, like a little rabbit that might hop away if startled, and was dressed all in pale lavender silk. She looked every inch the spinster that Phoebe knew her to be.
“Hello, Miss Skeffington-Fox,” she said, looking a little dazed by Phoebe’s glamorous scarlet ensemble. “I’m so pleased to meet you.”
“And I you, Lady Elizabeth, though please do call me Phoebe, Skeffington-Fox is such a mouthful it’s really very tiresome.”
The lady looked relieved at this invitation and gave her a slightly more assured smile. “Well, only if you will please call me Lizzie, everybody does you see.”
Phoebe did see and strongly suspected that Sylvester’s granddaughter - Harold’s sister - was put upon by all and sundry. Deciding that it was probably about time Lizzie had a champion she took her arm in a companionable manner and they walked into the house together.
Once more Phoebe had to stand and stare. Her fist impression was of light and space which she hadn’t expected in such a big old house. The hall was galleried and rose an impressive two stories to show a curved roof which was heavily decorated with intricate, white plaster mouldings. All around and up on the galleries were big white marble archways and the white stone balustrades following the white marble stairs and floor. The overriding effect of all that white marble reflected the light from the many windows until the whole room glittered, even in the weak sunshine of the late afternoon.
“Oh, how lovely,” she said, turning in a circle and craning her neck to take in the many beautiful, gilt-framed paintings.
The tranquillity of the scene was disturbed by the clatter of nails on marble and a ferocious barking sound as five hunting dogs exploded into the hall from outside. The timing of this seemed unfortunate as a tall and rather exquisite looking young man had just descended the stairs and the dogs seemed to take exception to him. Uttering a shriek which Phoebe thought most unbecoming he cowered whilst the dogs circled him, growling until Benedict shouted at them. Instantly recognising a voice of authority they ducked their heads and walked towards him instead with a docile and chastised wag of their tails.
“Those damned dogs are a menace,” cried the pretty young man on the stairs, pointing at the creatures with loathing. “Wretched things ought to be shot!”
“Touch my dogs and it will be the last thing you do, you impertinent cully!” boomed a furious voice entering from the same door the dogs had just made use of. Phoebe turned in astonishment, feeling she had fallen into the scene of a play. The man who was built on the same massive lines as Benedict was clearly Sylvester’s son, John - Lord Rutland. Once again the thick dark hair and green eyes were in evidence though his face was florid and showed signs of excess that his thick waistline only echoed. There was nothing in his face that Phoebe found to like as he stared at his terrified nephew with pure loathing. She decided on the spot that Sylvester’s advice to stay clear of him and Harold, who she took to be the coxcomb trembling on the stairs, was good advice indeed.
“If you can’t control them,” Harold continued, his voice rising to a shriek. “Then you shouldn’t be surprised if someone takes matters into their own hands. They’re dangerous, they should be put down!”
Phoebe caught Benedict’s eye, who happened to be stroking the silky ears of one of these dangerous creatures as it gazed up at him with a worshipful expression. The lurking amusement in his gaze was obvious, as was an obvious chagrin at the appalling behaviour of his family.
“I’ll take matters into my hands and put you down before you lay a hand on my dogs, by God,” John thundered as he stormed towards Harold who uttered a gasp of horror and ran to stand beside Sylvester.
“Enough!” Sylvester shouted, stamping the heavy oak stick he leaned on against the marble floor in fury. “How dare you make such a show of yourself in front of my guests.”
“Well it would be a mercy killing, the damned little fribble makes me sick,” John muttered. “But I beg your pardon,” he added, rather ungraciously. At this point he noticed Phoebe and his bloodshot eyes brightened rather noticeably. “Pleased to meet you,” he said, suddenly rather more urbane. “Don’t be frightened of the dogs, they won’t hurt you. Not if you’re not a pathetic little weasel at any rate.” He winked at her and she was relieved to note Benedict had come to stand beside her.
“You needn’t fear for Miss Skeffington-Fox,” he replied, greeting his cousin with a cool nod. “She owns two monstrous wolf hounds that should arrive at any moment.”
John scowled at that. “Trained are they?” he demanded.
“Oh, indeed,” Phoebe replied with the sweetest smile she could conjure. “They have perfect manners.”
Benedict cleared his throat and rather hurriedly suggested as the hour was growing late that they all go and get ready for dinner.
Chapter 5
“WHILE here the poet points the charms
Which bless the perfect dame,
How unaffected beauty warms,
And wit preserves the flame.” - David Garrick
Dinner was as horrifying as Benedict had expected, only lightened by the chagrin in Phoebe’s eyes on the arrival of his betrothed. He scolded himself for his presumption of her interest in him, and the satisfaction he took in it. She was no doubt on the lookout for a rich husband and an earl would do just fine.
Theodora looked elegant and cool as ever; she always reminded him of an ancient marble statue, unchanging and rather aloof. He found it reassuring. She would never subject him to ridiculous arguments and passionate tempers or come to dinner looking so ... He risked a glance back at Phoebe and wished he hadn’t as every man in the room was doing the same thing. He glared at his cousin, John, who was ogling her ample cleavage in full view of his wife, Jane. Though if he’d been married to Jane he might be every bit as desperate. The woman had the face and figure of a bulldog, all square shoulders and compact strength in a short frame, and the personality to match.
As though drawn by some magnetic force he found himself looking at Phoebe once more. Dressed all in tulle over a pale pink satin she looked fragile and ethereal, until you saw the glint in her blue eyes. Like a naughty fairy, he thought, finding his lips twitch at the thought and then chastising himself roundly for it. She was sitting beside Sylvester of course, who had made sure that she and his mother, Lady Rothay were either side of him with no regard for the rest of them. Sylvester didn’t give a hoot for manners and never had. The results of which were obvious in his son, John.
Phoebe gave a convulsive laugh that had all of the ladies looking at her with disapproval, even his mother looked a little shocked, and it was clear Sylvester had said something outrageous to her. Phoebe looked up and caught his eye, her expression rather defiant as he stared at her in annoyance. Couldn’t she at least try to act with a little decorum? He glanced back across the table to find Theodora giving him a sympathetic look and found himself even more irate.
Dinner was interrupted by Keane entering and announcing the arrival of Lord Oliver Bradshaw. Benedict gave a sigh of relief as he looked upon one of his more agreeable relatives. Oliver’s mother had been Sylvester’s youngest sister and he and Benedict were relatively close in age, Benedict being two years older. Oliver had inherited his father’s looks rather than the Rutland dark colouring and was handsome and blond with pale blue eyes. He was a little shorter than the lofty Rutland clan and less heavily built but he was a fine figure of a man and his reputation with the ladies was formidable. It was easy to see why, however, as he gave a charming and friendly smile to the ladies present.
There was a few moment’s disorder whilst another place was laid for him and Sylvester took the opportunity to introduce Phoebe. Benedict stamped on an irrational surge of irritation as Oliver looked like all his Christmases had come at once. Having been seated beside Benedict, Oliver greeted him with a wide-eyed and eloquent question without ever saying a word.
“My mother’s brother’s step-daughter,” he said in answer, managing to infuse the words with deep disapproval. That was of course a mistake as Oliver looked even more intrigued.
“Tell me more,” Oliver demanded, his blue eyes twinkling with determination.
“Don’t go getting any ideas, Ollie,” Benedict warned him in an undertone. “She’s a damned hoyden and a blasted nuisance but she’s under my protection, and so you can take that gleeful look from your face.”
Oliver looked at him in frustration. “Damn it, Ben, you never used to be such a dashed gloomy stick in the mud.”
“Nevertheless,” Benedict replied, who thought in his opinion that it was about time Oliver stopped behaving like a school boy kicking up larks.
Finally the interminable meal came to an end and the ladies withdrew.
Benedict sipped his port and let the conversation wash over him. John was talking low and urgent to the old man and Sylvester sounded irritated as hell. No doubt the rumours about John’s financial affairs were true then. Benedict had always thought him a fool so it was no surprise. He might be a terrific sportsman but he didn’t have the sense he was born with when it came to business affairs. Benedict had tried to warn him about some spectacularly bad investments he’d made but had been told in no uncertain terms to mind his own business, so he had.
Harold and his friend, Mr Spalding, also had their heads together and Benedict frowned inwardly. He rather thought his cousin had got himself in over his head there. Although Harold was some five years older than Benedict, he could never help but feel the man was his junior. There was something inherently childish about him, and not in a good way. He was spoilt and indolent and dressed like a blasted fop. At least mourning dress was forcing some taste upon him and they were being spared the outrageous colour combinations he often sported. Benedict remembered with a shudder of distaste a combination of canary yellow pantaloons and lilac striped waistcoat that had made him feel positively nauseated.
Mr Spalding, however, was undoubtedly a blood, and a very knowing one. Benedict knew the type. Probably from a decent family but with no money behind him. He’d no doubt latched onto Harold and shown him into the worst kind of gaming hells where they’d fleece him blind and Spalding would take a percentage. He had mentioned at dinner that he’d hunted with the Quorn and dropped a couple of very distinguished names. But then he had a good, if rather sly countenance. He dressed in the latest fashion but not to excess, his address was good and his manners exemplary. Though in present company anyone could shine, Benedict thought with a snort of amusement.
He looked up as Oliver came and sat beside him. “Why so glum, old man?” he demanded, clapping Benedict on the back. “If that cousin of yours don’t give a man a reason to smile, I can’t think of another.”
“She’s not my cousin,” Benedict replied with a sigh of annoyance. “And I am engaged to be married.”
“Good God, aren’t we proper,” Oliver said, tutting at him. “What did happen to you, Ben? We used to have such larks.”
Benedict finished his port and set the glass down. “We’re neither of us boys, Oliver. Sometimes one has to take responsibility.”
To his surprise Oliver nodded. “Yes,” he said, sounding rather serious. “I know that’s true, but surely that doesn’t mean you can’t have a little fun now and then?”
Benedict got to his feet and looked down at him smiling. “Well only a very little,” he said, smirking as Oliver laughed and followed him to rejoin the ladies.
***
Phoebe repressed a sigh of utter boredom and cast her eyes at the door once again, praying that the men would return soon. So far she had navigated Lizzie’s dull if well intentioned conversation, Theodora Pinchbeck’s barely hidden insults, and Lady Jane Rutland’s furious gaze. Though how it was her fault the woman’s husband was a revolting Satyr she couldn’t at all see. Lady Rothay was an ally up to a point, but she couldn’t afford to offend her soon-to-be daughter-in-law as she and her husband to be held the family’s purse strings. In the end Phoebe had retreated to the far end of the room to sit with Cecily and the children, and could well understand why the oldest of Benedict’s sisters preferred to stay with her younger siblings rather than join the adults.
“Are you sorry you came?” Cecily whispered to her in an undertone. “I shan’t blame you if you are.”
Phoebe grinned at her and shook her head. “Oh I’m not such a wet goose, Cecily, dear,” she said. “It will take more than the Miss Pinchbecks of this world to dampen my spirits. Though,” she added with a serious tone. “I could well understand how she could give you a fit of the dismals.”
Cecily smothered a giggle of delight at having her brother’s intended so described. “Oh dear,” she said, looking immediately contrite. “I know I shouldn’t as she’ll be my sister soon, but ... Oh, Phoebe, I try to like her I swear I do but she just takes the fun out of everything.” She gave a heavy sigh and Phoebe frowned, sur
prised by just how bad things were. She’d believed she’d made a pretty sound judgement of Miss Pinchbeck’s character but she wasn’t blind to her own mistakes and would have been ready to be proved wrong. That she’d been correct and more than she’d realised was both a relief and a sorrow for she didn’t like to see Cecily and the children looking so miserable.
“There’ll be no bearing her once they’re married,” Honesty piped up, none too quietly either. Cecily hushed her and Honesty blushed and returned to the game of Spillikins that she was playing with Patience and Jessamy.
“She’s right though,” Cecily whispered in an undertone. She gave a heavy sigh and looked dejected. “I was so looking forward to coming out next season but I just know she’ll find a way to spoil it.”
Phoebe took her hand and squeezed it. “No she won’t,” she said, her tone determined. “I’ll see to that.”
If she’d been intent on removing Miss Pinchbeck for Benedict’s sake - and she admitted for her own - she was now utterly committed for the sake of the family. If she had seen anything resembling love or affection pass between the two of them she would have hesitated and probably called a halt. But to her critical gaze there seemed to be nothing more than a polite understanding between them. She wondered what kind of life they would lead together and if Benedict had considered what their physical union might be like? Her father’s voice came to mind as she considered the question, “like bedding a dead fish I shouldn’t wonder.” Her wicked Papa had always been candid in matters of sex and being raised by a rake had left her rather well prepared for dealing with them as she knew all of their tricks. A good thing for a pretty girl who was raised beside an army on the march, but she had kept her honour intact and received a flattering number of marriage proposals.
Dealing with a straight-laced, overbearing, morally rigid earl was outside of her experience, but she was a quick study. Once again she heard her father’s merry laughter and knew he would egg her on as it was about time he was brought down a peg or two. Swallowing down a bubble of laughter herself she turned back to Cecily who was looking at her like her own personal saviour.
Dying For A Duke Page 4
