Annabella’s face brightened, and she pressed her mother’s hand to her cheek. “No, no, of course it is not too much to ask. But you shall see! I will not change.”
Lady Smith smiled and relaxed into her pillows. “We shall see,” she replied. Yes, she had done the right thing. If Mr. Wentworth were truly as honorable as Annabella said—and it certainly seemed he was—then she could depend on one thing: that Mr. Wentworth would make no move to press his attentions upon Annabella, and she would be none the wiser as to his affections. If, that is, he even wished to marry Annabella in the first place.
In which case, the duke would have all the advantage. He had no reason to withhold his attentions from Annabella. Indeed, thought Lady Smith, it would not hurt to let the duke know he had a rival. She would send a note telling him, tomorrow.
Chapter 10
My dear young friend, read Parsifal. I am afraid I cannot tell you anything of Sir Quentin’s whereabouts, for he has quite disappeared. I fear some misfortune must have seized the man, for the innkeeper at the Blue Moon reported to me that Sir Quentin has not paid his shot and his belongings are still in his room. Indeed, his horse returned without him to the inn the night of your mother’s masquerade ball. I have discreetly questioned the folk hereabouts, and none will admit to seeing him. I believe you and Miss Smith must have been the last persons to have seen him, that night. It could well be that the man might have disappeared to escape creditors, for I understand he is not well to pass. However, I cannot feel easy that the rogue left his valuables behind at the inn. It does not sound characteristic of a man of his stamp.
I intend to investigate further, of course. However, let me know if there is anything else of concern to you in this case, or if you have any additional information concerning Sir Quentin.
Yr Svt, Geo., Lord Laughton.
P.S. I still mean to try that bay of yours—I hope you have not let Geoffrey try him first!
Parsifal smiled a little at his friend’s postscript, then bent his attention to the letter again. Perhaps Sir Quentin was no longer a threat, and he need not worry about Annabella’s safety any longer. He frowned. No, he was wrong. Until Sir Quentin was discovered, the man could still reappear to cause more mischief. Now he would not only have to think of Annabella’s safety, but that of the few remaining houseguests as well. He would just have to make sure they left during the day with proper escort, and not during the evening.
The man’s disappearance disturbed him. He must consider the idea that the man was dead, for he could not see why Sir Quentin would abandon all his goods at an inn, or why he would leave his horse to return to the inn by itself. If the man had been attacked by footpads or highwaymen, it was too close to Wentworth Abbey for Parsifal’s comfort, and it was his, Parsifal’s, responsibility to ensure the safety of his guests.
He smoothed out Lord Laughton’s note upon the escritoire, staring at it contemplatively. Perhaps he would talk to his friend and see what could be done about the investigation. Parsifal knew the local village folk and the estate tenants well. It could be they had heard or seen something; he knew they would be more forthcoming with him than with Lord Laughton, however much Laughton might be a good man and a fine magistrate.
Pushing aside the letter, Parsifal turned to his account books. There were other things to be done right now, and he’d better get to them.
But of course, he could not. Someone knocked on the door, and he suppressed a groan.
“Enter!”
“Dear, dear Parsifal! My dearest son!”
Lady Grafton’s dearest son bit back a groan. The only time he was her dearest son was when she wanted him to do something disagreeable. He had managed to avoid his mother for the last few days since Geoffrey had told him she was looking for him. But there was no escaping it now, and she was carrying her vinaigrette bottle. It was a sign that her emotions were highly exercised, and the fact that she had risen before eleven o’clock told him she had been profoundly disturbed the night before. Parsifal held on to a sliver of hope: she had not, at least, unstopped the vinaigrette bottle.
“Good morning, Mother,” Parsifal said and gave her a dutiful embrace. He was rewarded by a wan smile and a pat on his cheek.
“I hope it is a good morning for you my dear, but I am convinced it has been ruined for me already. How can it not be? I tossed and turned and could not sleep a wink all night! But I am sure you will come to my rescue, my dear, sweet son!”
“Ah, well, if it’s rescuing you need, Mother, perhaps you should ask Geoffrey. He is always dashing here and there— I am sure he could run your errand for you.”
A discontented expression came over her face. “Oh, Geoffrey! So like his dear, departed father! Well, he cannot do it, for it is not a dashing about sort of thing I wish for. It is standing still that I want, and you must admit he is not good for that!”
“True.” A sinking feeling came over Parsifal. He was not the dashing about sort, but he found standing still as tedious as anyone else.
“So you will do it!” His mother’s face lightened, and she lowered the vinaigrette bottle.
“I need to know what it is before I agree, Mother.”
Lady Grafton stared at him blankly, then laughed. “Oh, how silly of me! I had quite forgot I have not told you! I need to have the thirteenth earl’s portrait restored, and you are the only one who can sit for it!”
“I?” Parsifal eyed the vinaigrette bottle and wondered briefly if there was something other than vinaigrette in it. But no, his mother rarely drank spirits, and that only in company. “But I know nothing about restoring portraits.”
His mother laughed merrily. “Of course not! You would be the model for it, you see.”
Relief poured over him. “You do not need a model to restore a painting.”
“Oh, but I do! The portrait is ruined from being above the mantelpiece for so long, and the restorer cannot quite make out all the details. And, as Geoffrey pointed out, you look more like the earl in the miniature than he does. So of course you must be the model for it.”
Parsifal mentally cursed his brother for a meddling mischief maker. Geoffrey could have done it, he was sure, for the family resemblance was strong. Save that Parsifal was a little shorter and a little broader in the shoulders than his brother, surely it could make no difference.
“Mother, I am certain Geoffrey could do it—” He paused, noting how her vinaigrette bottle rose once more and how her other hand fumbled with the stopper. “And besides, you never did like that portrait. I am surprised you want to restore it.”
“Oh, I would not, except you must know it is now all the fashion to have hundreds of portraits displayed in one’s house in the gallery. Lady Rollastone told me before she departed that she had her gallery positively covered with portraits, and you know how in the forefront of fashion she is.”
‘That is all very well, but Geoffrey has more time on his hands than I do, and the accounting still has to be done.” He nodded toward the book and papers before him.
His mother smiled triumphantly. “But he cannot, for he has driven with Miss Smith and her maid in the carriage to some shops in the village. And the restorer finished cleaning the portrait yesterday, so is ready to paint at any time.”
Parsifal felt a surge of anger at hearing that Geoffrey had taken Miss Smith out ... but surely Geoffrey would not importune her with a maid accompanying them. He gazed at the account book and sighed. It seemed he would not get to them yet. He let out an impatient breath.
“When do you wish me to do it?”
“Within an hour, so you may attend to your... books,” Lady Grafton replied, eyeing the accounts with distaste. “The restorer believes the painting was done in the afternoon, so that is when he wishes to paint you, and in the King’s Room. Oh, and wear that costume you were wearing at the ball... I believe the color is close to what is in the painting.”
“Very well,” Parsifal said and nodding to his mother, turned deliberately back to the acc
ounts. He heard her impatient “Hmph!” before the door closed once again.
Fifteen minutes poring over the account books showed him that it was useless to continue. Thoughts of Annabella and Geoffrey alternated with his curiosity about Sir Quentin’s disappearance, and when he looked down at the sums he had done so far, he found they were wrong. He shoved the books aside, rose, and left the room. He might as well put on the costume and pose as his ancestor.
When Parsifal entered the King’s Room, he prepared himself to be thoroughly bored. Signore Forcelli was a thin, intense man with a strong Italian accent. He was covered with paint splatters not only on his apron but upon his clothes and wild, unkempt hair. He gave only a brief grimace of teeth with his bow and greeting, then set about moving Parsifal this way and that until the sunlight lay upon him just so. Parsifal was momentarily intrigued by someone who was obviously unconventional and tried to ask a few questions about the man’s profession, but he was quickly hushed by the impatient glare of the restorer’s eyes.
It was a deadly thing to be so bored. Parsifal could not help having his thoughts wander again to Annabella and the Duke of Stratton, as well wondering about the other gentleman Annabella had said she loved. He tried to think of other things, such as what needed to be done on the estate, or what shrubberies he would transplant from the greenhouse to the gardens, but it was of no use. He flicked a glance at the clock behind Signore Forcelli and saw to his despair that an hour had passed, and that the man did not show any signs of finishing.
“How long will this take?” he asked.
The restorer gave him a sharp impatient look and sighed a very long sigh. “Perhaps another ‘alf hour, signore, for this session. If you would be so pleased, I beg of you, do not move and do not talk.”
Parsifal almost groaned, but remembered in time that he was not to talk. A small itch formed in the middle of his back, and he began to sweat thinking of how he could not move to scratch it. The itch spread, and now he wished he could at least move to relieve the one at the back of his neck and shoulder. He glanced at the clock again—twenty more minutes. He wondered if it were possible to die from the desire to scratch.
It was with relief that he heard an angry shout from outdoors. Signore Forcelli looked away from the painting and stared fiercely at the window, and his inattention worked like a counterspell upon Parsifal’s enforced stillness. He moved quickly to the window and looked out. A boy was running away from a man who was running after him, cane upraised. Parsifal recognized the boy as Lord and Lady Carrington’s eldest—they had brought him along when they came for the masquerade and had stayed on for a while at his mother’s invitation. He did not recognize the man—it could well be that he was the boy’s tutor. He grinned, for it seemed the boy was waving a shaggy brown object, and noticed that the man was quite bald.
Loud throat-clearing sounds brought Parsifal’s attention back to Signore Forcelli who looked at him sternly.
“If you would be most pleased, signore, to stand as I have set you? Ah, no, no! I will have to set you again.” The man’s frown was fierce.
But Parsifal did not attend him. This time a scream came from out of the window, and he looked out again. The man had caught the boy and was caning him with swift, hard strokes.
A hard, hot anger overcame Parsifal, sizzling over his limbs until his fingers curled into fists.
“Signore! What are you doing? I am not finished! Come back!”
Parsifal paid no heed. He leaped through the window and hung from the frame, then dropped the short distance to the ground. The burning anger fired his legs to greater speed, and he ran to the man still caning the boy.
He seized the man by the collar and jerked him away from the boy, ignoring the man’s choking sounds.
“Give it to me.”
The man stared at him in incomprehension, his face turning red, then a little blue around the lips.
“Give me the cane.”
The man shoved the cane at him, and Parsifal untwisted his hold on the man’s neckcloth. He picked up the cane and broke it over his knee, then threw it on the ground.
“Don’t ever do that again. I assume you are this boy’s tutor.” The man nodded, staring at him with frightened eyes. “If I ever catch you hurting this boy again, I will make sure you are dismissed—or worse.”
“You ... you are not my employer, sir!”
Parsifal gave him a hard stare, and the man shrank from him. “I will tell your employers. And they will most certainly do as I bid.”
“Yes ... yes, sir.”
“You are dismissed.”
The man turned and walked swiftly away, but one last glance at Parsifal made him run.
Parsifal turned to the boy, who was staring at him with a tear-stained but awe-filled gaze,
“Thank you s-sir! I’ve never seen old Smedley run so fast in my life!”
The heat that had overcome him faded, and Parsifal looked at the boy with a certain consternation. Of course, he could not let the boy be beaten so, but he should not have acted with such impulsiveness either. In fact, he was not at all certain that he could fulfill his threat to the boy’s tutor if it should happen again, for he did not know the Carringtons well at all—they were his mother’s friends.
“It... it was nothing, boy.” Parsifal smiled at him. “I suppose I should not call you boy—what is your name?”
“Charles, sir. Charles Carrington ... and is that a real sword?”
Parsifal looked down at the sword at his side and marveled that he had not tripped over it when he ran to the boy’s rescue. “Yes, it is—see?” He drew it out a little from the scabbard.
The boy’s eyes widened. “Ooh, may I hold it?”
“Er, no. I would prefer you do not.” Parsifal remembered how sharp it was when he had cut himself with it in the attic.
Charles withdrew his hand and nodded in respectful understanding. “Sorry, sir.”
Parsifal felt a little sorry himself at the boy’s disappointed look. “Do you ride horses, Charles?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, when you are recovered from your caning, you may feel free to ride any of the horses in the stables you wish—but not the stallion. That one is mine, and I will be quite angry if you go near him.”
“Yes, sir!” the boy said fervently and grinned widely.
Parsifal nodded and turned back to the house. He spied the brown shaggy object that Master Charles Carrington had dropped, and he picked it up and tossed it to the boy. “And return this to your tutor. You should not have done it, and he was right to punish you, though not so harshly. Do not do it again.”
“Anything you say, sir, if only I can ride one of the horses!” The boy walked slowly toward the stables, then turned back. “Sir, who am I to say gave me permission?”
“Grafton.”
“Thank you, sir!”
Parsifal nodded and walked back to the house and went up the back stairs to the King’s Room again, where Signore Forcelli glared at him fiercely.
“I was not finished, Signore Wentworth !”
A sudden fiery impatience seized Parsifal at his words. “You may not be finished, signore, but I am!” He turned on his heel.
“But the painting!” exclaimed the man.
“You are an artist, sir, I suggest you use your imagination!” Parsifal shut the door of the room firmly behind him and walked quickly back to his room,
The fierce heat that had come over him faded somewhat as he climbed the stairs, but it was still there, at the core of him. Bewilderment muddied the feelings within him, and Parsifal shook his head. What had come over him? He had never acted in this way before ... but he did not feel any wish to apologize to Signore Forcelli or anyone else for his actions, a thing he would have felt inclined to do before.
As he reached up to remove his costume, Parsifal glanced at the mirror in his room, then stared. He had not really thought much of family resemblances, but it struck him now how much he did indeed look like t
he thirteenth Earl of Grafton, especially the painting of him in the miniature. Grafton ... he remembered suddenly that he had told young Charles that he had Grafton’s permission to use the horses.
What had he been thinking? He was not the Earl of Grafton—Geoffrey was. He had acted quite unlike himself—fiery and impulsive—leaping out of windows and, yes, over terrace railings the night of the masquerade. And then, earlier, rescuing Annabella, threatening Sir Quentin and Caroline’s admirer at swordspoint, and rescuing the Bowerlands and punching the highwayman from his horse. He looked at the costume he was wearing ... no.
No, it was a story only, one his father had told him of the thirteenth earl, and there was no ghost, no haunting. He thought of all the tales his nurse had told him of magical swords and disguises, of spells and ghostly possession— ridiculous! He thought, then, of the thirteenth Earl of Grafton, of how the earl had vowed vengeance upon those who had tried to harm his wife or anyone else under his protection. Parsifal shook his head. Such things were children’s tales, tales his father had told him for amusement....
A sense of dread crept past Parsifal’s resistance. He could see certain parallels in his situation. They were not identical, to be sure. But did he not vow to protect Annabella, whom he wished for his wife? Did he not swear vengeance, or at least threaten violence to those who tried to injure those under his protection? He shook his head again. This was nonsense, surely!
But the images of his own exploits so far—things he had never done before—and the stories of his ancestor’s rescues pushed at his mind. Did he not think, over and over again, how unlike himself he had been feeling? And did not these incidents occur every time he put on the costume?
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