“Spare me the details of her debut, if you please, love.”
“Shortly after that, her family took to spending part of the year in Newcastle. Adelaide’s father, Lord Henry, had invested heavily in shipbuilding, and she met Desmond when the family stayed over at the Eagle’s Head. Adelaide was always stubborn and despised the choice her father had made for her. Oh, she was fascinated with Desmond—he was quite handsome back then—but mostly to defy her father, she eloped with him, positive that in time, she could convince Lord Henry to forgive her.”
“But she could not?”
“No. He disinherited her immediately. That’s when your Grandmamma Easton did everything she could to persuade Lord Henry to reconsider; but it was all to no avail.”
“What was done, exactly?” Garnett wanted to know.
“There was some correspondence with Lord Henry’s solicitors in London, but it was of no use. He absolutely refused to communicate with her—and Adelaide was so very proud. When she saw he wouldn’t budge, she cut her ties with everyone she’d known in the old life. She visited Easton Place only twice after that, when your father had news of a death in her family, and then when it was rumored her father was making inquiries about her. But that, also, came to nothing. That’s all I know, dear.”
“The correspondence you mentioned,” he mused, picking at the fabric of her gardening pinafore. “Have you seen it?”
“Well, no. Not actually. But it must be in a trunk in the attic with all your Grandmamma’s other letters.”
“I shall have a look,” he exclaimed with sudden inspiration.
“Whatever for?”
“That could be the way, don’t you see? The solicitors would know what has become of the family, and whether there’s a charitable, Christian soul among them.”
“Christian or not, dear, I really don’t think they would be of a mind to welcome an illegitimate girl into their fold with open arms. Do you?”
“There’s only one way to find out,” he answered, resolute. “When Edwards surfaces with my cravat, send him up to me in the attic. We have some trunks to go through. And do offer my sincere regrets to the young ladies.”
“Surely you intend to come down for luncheon with us? We want a man’s opinion regarding our plans for the Harvest Ball.”
“Mamma, dearest love, that is positively the last thing in the world I would venture an opinion on.”
“They will be awfully disappointed not to see you,” she said reproachfully. “They are relying on you to introduce them to some of your friends from school, including that charming Count Paresi. Do you think you could prevail upon him to come to our little country entertainment?”
“Dare say! Paolo’s always ready for a frolic. But I don’t believe he’d be at all attracted to Muriel and Hellaine. He prefers them younger and not very bright.” Garnett had met Paolo Paresi during his Grand Tour, the summer before he’d begun his studies at university. Paolo was terribly rich and influential, having inherited a small island off the coast of Sicily, along with his father’s world-renowned wineries. His grapes produced the most delicious wines and the finest champagnes in Europe; and he was known for his pursuit of women and his penchant for mischief.
“But you will stay for luncheon, dear? They so enjoy your company.”
“I’m sure you can distract them with a description of what a handsome figure Drake Stoneham cuts on horseback,” he teased. “They’ll have plans for him, poor devil.”
With the assistance of the valet Garnett quickly found the correspondence his mother told him about. Edwards had committed to memory the location of every box and valise stored in the attic, and he put his hands on the late Lady Easton’s trunk immediately. The letters from the solicitors Landshire and Taylor were tucked away in Grandmamma’s letterbox, along with sweet-smelling epistles of love once delivered and received with equal passion. Her last communication from the lawyers was explicit. Nothing could be done to reverse Lord Henry’s decision. The bulk of his estate, if his wife preceded him into the hereafter, would go to his brother. Garnett recognized the seal for the attorneys still had an active office in London. At least, Mr. Landshire did, as Mr. Taylor was deceased.
There were several letters regarding Adelaide Houghton Desmond’s predicament and Garnett scanned them quickly in the dim light. Then he scooped up the entire bundle and carried them all back to his room. Edwards trailed his master faithfully, still holding the favored cravat over his arm. When Garnett opened the door to his own room, he stepped back in shock.
“Good lord!” he exclaimed, taking in the disarray. “Send one of the maids in to tidy up, won’t you?”
“Very good, sir,” Edwards responded, carefully placing the cravat on a rack beside the dressing table. “I believe they are waiting for you to be safely out of the way, on my own advice.”
“Indeed?” A twinkle in the old servant’s eye did not escape Garnett. “Well,” he went on, “I shan’t be able to think in this muddle and I cannot go down to the study for fear of being set upon by the entire clan of Foxworth. Go and fetch—Bess, I believe her name is. Tell her to see to my room straightaway, and bring me some writing materials.”
“Yes, sir. If Bess is occupied, will Martha do?”
“No, no. Certainly not,” Garnett admonished with a mischievous grin. “Martha’s derriere isn’t half so nice as Bess’s. It is an absolute pleasure to watch her bend over and pick up my things.”
“As you wish, milord.” Edwards backed out of the room, and Garnett heard the sound of muffled laughter that accompanied the old man’s footsteps down the hall.
**
Garnett rode into Oakham to post the letter, which he considered much too important to entrust to a servant. He had written to the surviving partner in the firm of Landshire and Taylor, stating the situation clearly and concisely. Miss Cleome Parker had been left destitute at the death of her grandfather; and since Adelaide Houghton Desmond was her grandmother, perhaps there was some relative on that side of the family who would come forward and offer safe shelter to her.
He neglected to mention that Cleome’s right to the Parker name was in question, and that her mother was an invalid, for he didn’t want to hurt the chances of locating someone who could be cajoled or shamed into providing for them both. He merely stated Cleome’s age, her uncommon beauty, her intelligence, her congenial temperament and the fact that she had been genteelly brought up by Adelaide herself.
As a favor to his mother, Garnett also posted a letter to Count Paolo Paresi, inviting him to come down from London for the Harvest Ball at the end of the summer. He wrote to Paolo that he hoped the count would do nothing to shock Lady Easton, for she had led a sheltered life. And Garnett asked, as one gentleman to another, that Paolo not reveal the true reason he was asked to leave university. Whenever he recalled the depraved episode, it was with a mixture of shame and arousal, for with it, he felt he’d truly come of age. But the fact that he’d actually participated in an orgy mystified him.
Garnett had been delighted to find Paolo at university. Of course, he wasn’t a full-time student—he was a bit older than the other lads—but he was jolly good fun. There to perfect his English and make contacts in London so necessary to the success of the wineries he’d inherited, Paresi had lots of time on his hands and was always good for a naughty adventure, usually of his own design. He appreciated Garnett’s attempts at art and introduced him to a barmaid who also did figure modeling for a few extra coins. For even more coins, she happily provided physical release for Garnett and his chums. Molly wasn’t so very young, and though her facial features were a bit hard, she had the body of a Greek goddess. She was his model for his scandalous illustration of the Song of Solomon.
The Eastons held quite a respectable place in London society but Paolo knew absolutely everyone. Included in his circle of friends, who considered themselves among the great and liberal intellectuals of the day, were the university’s chancellor, Everett Haviland, his wife Juliana
and his niece, Matilda. Mrs. Haviland liked to give dinner parties and she counted on Paolo to invite the most exciting poets and artists in the city. When he showed her the Solomon illustrations, she became completely enamored of Garnett; and on his twenty-first birthday, she insisted upon giving a dinner party for him.
“It’s not exactly how I’d planned to spend my birthday, old man,” Garnett argued when Paolo told him about Juliana’s intention.
“Oh?” was Paolo’s easy response. “And what are you going to do—get drunk at the corner pub and give Molly an extra farthing for a tickle and a slap? This will be much better, I promise you.”
“Come now. Juliana’s dinner parties are boring, to say the least.”
“Not this one. It’s to be a small, intimate group. Just you, myself, Juliana and Molly. Oh, and a friend of mine, Dr. Rupert, who has just returned from the Orient. He’ll have a special gift for you—and it’s something we can all enjoy. Humor us. Juliana will also have a special treat.”
“Dare I ask what? I insist on fair warning, if I’m to go along with this.”
“All right, then!” Paolo could not contain his glee. “You know the ridiculous woman considers herself a poet?”
“A very bad poet,” Garnett concurred.
“Indeed. Well, she was so taken with your Solomon sketches that she’s written an epic for you. It’s called, The Sultan’s Handmaiden. She means to recite it for us.”
“God help us all.”
Juliana Haviland, giving at least the appearance of propriety as they all sat down to dinner, announced apologetically that her husband was away on business, and that his niece had gone with him. She served her guests a light meal and then, in honor of Garnett’s birthday, she read the poem she’d written just for him. Her words were full of undeniable passion, but they made little sense to Garnett, who thought her theme but a veiled excuse for erotic imagery. When at last it came to an end, Molly and Dr. Rupert applauded heartily and Paolo smothered a laugh.
“Bravo!” Garnett joined in the applause. “I’ve never heard anything like it!”
“You’re too kind,” Juliana said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, milord, I’ll go and order our dessert and coffee brought into the parlor. And then,” she promised huskily, “I will bid the servants goodnight.” She cast a conspiratorial look over her shoulder at Paolo as she left the room.
“Pour me some of that wonderful Paresi champagne,” Garnett begged when she’d gone. “I’m in dire need of refreshment.”
Paolo filled his glass and nodding to Dr. Rupert, he said to Garnett, “No more so than the rest of us. The good doctor has brought just what we need.”
Dr. Rupert opened his medical bag and from its depths produced a hookah and a small bar of a brownish substance. With a scalpel, he began to shave slivers off the bar and put them in the pipe, into the base of which he poured some of the champagne.
“What is it?” Garnett asked. “Tobacco?”
“Hashish,” Paolo replied. “It’s an opiate. Have you ever tried it?”
“Indeed not. But our hostess—will she not object?”
But their hostess was delighted. There was only one tube and mouthpiece in the small water pipe, so they took turns puffing on it between sips of coffee and spoonfuls of trifle. At first, Garnett felt nothing much, but then he got rather light-headed and dreamy. He and Paolo were engaged in an intense conversation about undiscovered treasures of the Orient when he noticed that Juliana, Molly and Rupert had gone.
Puzzled, Garnett looked at Paolo. “Now where do you suppose they got off to?”
“Happy birthday, my friend,” Paolo responded. “Look behind the screen. Since your sketches inspired Juliana’s poem, she insisted on staging a tableau for you.”
“A tableau?” Garnett said thickly, feeling as if he were a hundred miles away and walking in a fog. “Of what? Her poem?”
“The part that describes how the sultan’s handmaiden prepared his bride to receive him. Try not to laugh. I believe she has rooked Rupert into playing the sultan.”
When Paolo folded the screen back, the scene that met Garnett’s eyes left him speechless. Rupert was sitting in a massive chair that was obviously meant to be a throne; and on a low couch before him, Juliana reclined in a purple silk robe. Molly, dressed like a slave girl in transparent harem pants, stood next to the couch. She wore nothing on top except some paste beads that were painted gold.
As Juliana recited The Preparation portion of her epic, she and Molly acted it out. She lay perfectly still while Molly undid her robe and draped it back. Garnett held his breath at the sight, for she wore nothing underneath. When Molly opened a jar of sweet-smelling ointment and anointed Juliana’s breasts, Garnett felt himself grow taut. As he watched, the chancellor’s wife writhed beneath Molly’s hands. Paolo passed the water pipe to Garnett who gulped in the smoke, fascinated by the erotic picture that played before him like an oil painting come to life. He had never beheld anything like it. He had seen naked women before, but never a woman engaged in touching another one so intimately. Molly moved Juliana’s legs apart and held her hand out to Garnett.
“Come, mighty sultan,” Juliana quoted from her poem. “Your bride is ready.”
Garnett looked at Paolo, unbelieving. Paolo nodded. “Go on,” said the count, grinning like a satyr. “You may never get another chance. If you want privacy, I’ll fold the screen back in place. Rupert, come out of there. The real sultan wants his bride.”
Before he quite knew how it happened, Garnett was behind the screen with Juliana and Molly, and Molly was helping him out of his clothes. Then she went to stand behind Juliana’s head. When Juliana held her arms out to Garnett and bent her knees, he went between them without any hesitation. She arched herself up to meet his erection and the last thing he remembered was sinking into her as he watched Molly’s fingers splayed across her breasts.
The next thing he remembered was waking up alone on the couch. His clothes were in a heap on the floor and after struggling into them, he came around the screen to see that the lamps were out and Juliana, wearing only a silk robe, was asleep on a large chair near the cold fireplace, still holding his sketches of the Song of Solomon. Rupert, likewise, was asleep on a chaise. Paolo was pouring champagne into a glass for Molly. Garnett’s head felt like it was ten times its normal size and nausea was beginning to make him regret the excesses of the evening.
“Thanks for . . . luffly evening,” he mumbled to Paolo. “Got to go. Got to . . .”
“Must you?” Paolo responded, caressing one of Molly’s bare breasts. “The fun is just beginning.”
“No . . . over,” Garnett managed. He just made it out of the house before he vomited like a common drunk into the street. The next day, he received a terse note summoning him to the chancellor’s office where he learned that he’d been expelled. The innocent Matilda had walked into the parlor to find her uncle’s wife wearing nothing but an open robe, with Garnett’s sketches in her lap, and Count Paolo Paresi asleep nearby on the sofa. Paolo told Garnett later that after he’d sent Rupert to take Molly home, Juliana offered herself to him in appreciation for the evening. They’d had quite a lovely time, he said, and had fallen asleep; and since the water pipe had left with Dr. Rupert, their hostess blamed Garnett’s erotic artwork for seducing her to such corruption. She begged her husband to forgive her, as she was but a weak, impressionable female. He did not divorce her but he banished her to live with some distant relatives in Wales.
Garnett often wished he could be as sophisticated and worldly as Paolo but one thing was sure. He had no intention of introducing Paolo to Cleome, who was even more innocent than his dear mother. He couldn’t bear it if either of them ever learned why he’d been expelled. He wondered if it was Cleome’s purity that so attracted him to her. If he were capable of such debauchery, then perhaps she would be his salvation. Recalling it now made him long to see her all the more. If only she would give him a chance.
Drake Stoneham had retur
ned from the north a few days previous, but Garnett had not yet called on him; and that was as good excuse as any to stop by the inn. Stoneham was a handsome devil—even Garnett’s very proper mamma reluctantly admitted it. He hoped the gambler had no interest in Cleome. But even if he did, Garnett knew she was not the kind of woman who would fall prey to a man’s base desires. So, he puzzled, what in blazes did he want with her? He could never marry her; that was quite out of the question. And he wouldn’t want to hurt her.
If it turned out he was in love with the illegitimate daughter of a tinsmith and a madwoman, he would be sorely vexed indeed, for he could never go against his father’s wishes to that extreme. A minor skirmish in the hay with a milkmaid, or an hour with a brothel whore, was one thing. Marrying the bastard grandchild of an innkeeper who was forced to earn her own way in the world as a gambler’s servant was quite another.
Chapter Seven
Cleome was exhausted and her patience nearly spent. She was determined to run the Eagle’s Head as efficiently as she imagined the best London hotels were managed, and it was no easy task. In the weeks that followed the contract she had struck with Mr. Stoneham, she completed her duties as competently as always, but she hadn’t realized how difficult it would be to keep out of the new master’s way. He seemed to be everywhere, going over every inch of the property; and for some reason she couldn’t name, his quiet courtesy to her was infuriating.
Most of the servants accepted the new situation and avoided discussing him with Cleome, but she knew they liked him. She didn’t mind that they all decided to stay on and serve him, for they needed the work; and she couldn’t have done without each and every one of them, save Fanny.
The Lodestone Page 11