Luncheon consisted of orange-rosemary chicken, chilled vegetables and summer pudding. Grace succumbed to her tendency to eat when she was nervous, and had two helpings of pudding, which consisted of bread and fruit and clotted cream. In short, a calorie fest.
In between bites, Grace asked Lady Vee about the history of the cameos. She was treated to the tale of Byron’s last days.
“Of course he was the only one with the least idea of organization. The Greek Army was a joke! B. spent nearly all his own fortune as well as all the money collected by the English supporters of the Greek Revolution, trying to make soldiers out of peasants. But it was a noble cause and one dear to his heart.”
Grace made some polite acknowledgment. It seemed to her that Byron would have done better to stay home and keep writing.
“And the darling boy’s health was never good. How he suffered, if we are to believe Trelawny’s report of his examination of Byron’s embalmed body!”
Not exactly mealtime conversation, but Grace couldn’t refrain from arguing, “But didn’t Trelawny later recant his story that both Byron’s feet were clubbed? From what I’ve read it seems that most historians believe Trelawny took all kinds of liberties with the facts.”
Lady Vee waved this off as of no importance. “And then of course there was the epileptic seizure Byron suffered in February. So difficult to know what may have triggered it, and while it was not the cause of his death, it certainly must have contributed. How ironic that one so gallant, so vital should in the end die as a result of catching a chill.”
“But didn’t Byron actually die of the treatment he received?”
Lady Vee’s face suffused with color. “Yes! I see that you do know your Byron. The poor darling suffered a relapse of the malaria he had contracted in 1811. Those so-called doctors and that fool valet killed him with their purges and their leeches! B. actually said they were assassinating him…”
Lady Vee fell silent. Following her gaze, both Grace and Al glanced around. Through the French doors they watched a white Land Rover enter the stately gates and drive slowly along the circular drive before vanishing out of their sight.
“He’s here,” Allegra said unnecessarily.
Lady Venetia allowed herself a tiny smile, and took a bite of summer pudding. “Naturally.” She beckoned to one of the servants to lay another place setting.
Thirty seconds later a bell chimed musically throughout the house.
Lady Venetia met Grace’s doubtful gaze. “Have another pudding, child,” she invited, with the cool confidence of a woman holding all the cards.
Thirty seconds after that there came a sound like someone throwing someone else into a table.
And then a sound like someone threw someone into a wall.
The pictures on the dining room wall slid back and forth like pendulums. The double doors to the dining room banged open.
To borrow the vernacular of Grace’s students, Peter looked…awesome. Cuban boots, slim-fitting Levis, a vest of crushed teal velvet and a white poet’s shirt. In fact, he looked like a very hip poet. What he said was prosaic enough. “I really don’t have time for this.” He glanced Grace’s way. “Grace—”
Grace was already on her feet.
“So nice to see you again,” she couldn’t resist saying in passing.
Allegra sat like a stone. Lady Venetia was on her feet, hands braced on the table. “What do you think you’re doing?” she shrieked. “You can’t just walk in here and—and take her.”
A little nastily Peter said, “Really? Why’s that?”
“We have to—to talk. We have to decide—”
Grace heard Peter say, “Actually we don’t.”
“But-but—” The old woman looked about for her conspicuously absent minions.
They went out through the main hall, and Bartleby and Jeff—or perhaps it was Mutt and Bartleby—were lying on the floor. They did not actually have stars or songbirds orbiting their heads but they gave the general impression that they were through for the day. “My hero,” Grace said.
“I bet you say that to all the boys.” On the porch Peter kissed Grace once, hard. Then grinned. “Hello again.”
“Miss me?” Grace inquired.
“A little.”
They got into the Land Rover and Grace watched the white house in the side mirror grow smaller and smaller in the distance till it was the size of a dollhouse.
“If they had brains,” Peter remarked, “they’d be dangerous.”
High Rhymes and Misdemeanors Page 35