His gaze dropped to survey the jumble of torn paper that had fallen onto the parquet floor, along with a handful of smaller volumes that had managed to remain undamaged. "You may put me to work to repay the cost of it."
Prestwick quietly closed the door behind him and went to retrieve the split signatures of foolscap that had ripped free of the covers. "The Frogs, by Aristophanes," he read from the title page.
"The maid left the door open after dusting," croaked Perry. "I had never seen so many beautiful books in one place before, so I thought there was no harm in having a closer look." His voice became very small. "Then I spotted that one on the top shelf. I have always wanted to read it, and..."
His words trailed off in a ragged hiccup of remorse. "You may go ahead and birch me, sir. I know I richly deserve it for wrecking such an expensive book."
"Hmmm." The duke flipped through the pages, then let them fall shut. "Actually it is not worth the leather it was bound in. It is a remarkably shoddy piece of scholarship, with all sorts of grammatical errors. I daresay the collection is much improved without it."
With a casual shrug, he tossed it over his shoulder.
Perry's mouth formed a silent 'O' as his eyes grew as large as gold buttons on Harold's swallowtail coat.
"Now, Aueltman's edition—the one there, to the right of your hand—is the definitive text of the playwright's works. That is the one you should be looking at." Stepping onto the lower rungs of the ladder, he plucked both the book and the boy from their places and carried them over to the immense desk by the mullioned windows.
Turning the pages to the first act, he ran a finger under the opening lines. "Did you know that Aristophanes is considered the father of comedy?"
Perry, still mute with surprise, could only nod.
"He was a master of comic satire and biting humor, not only in The Frogs but in such other works as The Birds, The Clouds and Lysistrada." Satisfied that he had appeared suitably knowledgeable, Prestwick leaned back with a small smile.
"He was also a sharp critic of Athenian politics and culture after the start of the Peloponnesian War in 431 B.C., and the death of Pericles in 429 B.C." The lad had recovered enough of his voice to add a footnote to the duke's explanation.
Prestwick's expression turned to one of wry bemusement. "Er, yes. That's exactly right."
Perry's eyes were now glued to the printed page, saying each word under his breath as he labored over the lines the duke had indicated.
"It is pronounced more like this," corrected Prestwick, taking care to go over the syllable in question several times.
"Ah." Perry repeated it perfectly, a boyish grin sneaking across his countenance. "Thank you, sir. One can never tell when knowing how to say "frog" in Greek will come in handy."
The duke chuckled in answer, then pulled a face. "Speaking of frogs, I am afraid I must hurry to breakfast. My French chef may threaten to burn the kitchen along with the toast and Yorkshire gammon if I allow his oeufs aux champignon to get cold."
Shooting one last, wistful look at the page, Perry reluctantly closed the book and made to slide off the chair.
"That does not mean you cannot stay and look over the book for as long as you like."
The lad stared at him in disbelief. "I may?"
"Of course you may. Indeed, you may make use of any volume in the library. If there is one you cannot reach, ring for one of the footmen and he shall give you a hand."
After voicing his profuse thanks, Perry slanted a shy glance upward. "I—I don't suppose you might want to read it together, so that you might help me..." Suddenly aware of the temerity of the request, his cheeks colored and he rushed on. "Of course, a duke must be awfully busy, and besides, you have read it before, and—"
"A classic is like an old friend, lad. It is always a pleasure to renew acquaintances. I should be very pleased to help you work out the nuances of Aristophanes."
In truth, the duke was more than pleased. By virtue of his lofty title, he had been cozened, flattered and complimented by all manner of people, most looking for some advantage in aligning themselves with the powerful Prestwick name. But to have a lad ask in such honest appeal for his help and guidance touched him to the very core.
Covering his emotion with a gruff cough, Prestwick took a peek at his pocketwatch. "After breakfast, I have several things to attend to with my secretary, but we could meet here at, say, eleven." He couldn't resist adding, "Unless you are otherwise engaged?"
"No, sir," came the solemn answer. "I have no other plans for the day."
"Good. Then we shall see if we can catch up with The Frogs."
The duke found himself whistling a rousing aria from Handel's Water Musik as he made for the door, even though he had a sneaking suspicion that the eldest Greeley was going to prove a good deal more slippery to handle.
Chapter 8
"No."
"Must you always be so deucedly stubborn, Miss Greeley?"
"And must you always be so deucedly arrogant, Your Grace?" she countered.
Prestwick forked up the last bit of his omelet before replying. She had, at least, not launched any of the still-warm croissants in his direction, though the one on her plate had been reduced to a pile of buttery crumbs.
"I was merely trying to be of help. However, if you wish to flounder along on your own, at the risk of falling easy prey to whatever sharks may be prowling the waters, that is your choice." He broke off a chunk of the flaky pastry and slathered on a helping of strawberry jam. "Though it would be an extremely stupid one."
She speared a piece of broiled kidney, looking as though she wished it was his own vital organ impaled upon her knife. "Why?" she demanded, after dicing the morsel into a fine hash.
"Why is it stupid?"
"No," she said through clenched teeth. "Why are you offering to help?"
"Because, whether you believe it or not, underneath the fancy tailoring that you deride, I am not completely bare of honor. I wish to ensure that Uncle Aubrey's estate goes to the rightful heir."
"Even if that is not your cousin?" Her tone was as sharp as one of Monsieur Henri's cleavers.
"Yes, Miss Greeley." He was having trouble keeping the edge off his own voice. "Even if it means that Harold's suit is denied."
"Prestwick!" Lady Farrington sailed into the room with all the force of a four-deck ship of the line, the flapping of her skirts creating a breeze that sent ripples across the tablecloth. "What is the meaning of this? Why is that odious man of yours asking to see Aubrey's papers?"
The duke put down the remainder of his croissant, finding that he was fast losing his patience, along with his appetite. "Because I asked him to, Aunt Hermione. I am having him review all of the documents pertaining to this matter before Uncle Aubrey's lawyers arrive."
"Hmmph!" After loading up with a bountiful selection from the silver chafing dishes—including the last three croissants, noted the duke with a baleful grimace—she sat down and shook out her napkin with a loud snap. "A waste of time. The facts are clear as a church bell. You will see that it is all just a formality, and the matter of succession will quickly be settled once and for all."
"Then there can be no objection to Symonds taking a look."
Finding herself outmaneuvered, his great aunt fell silent, contenting herself with shooting a disgruntled glare at Zara as she dug into her poached eggs.
Prestwick noted out of the corner of his eye that the Admiral of the Amazons showed no sign of being intimidated by a much larger adversary.
"Do consider my suggestion, Miss Greeley, and let me know what you decide," he murmured as he rearranged his silverware.
Lady Farrington's hearing proved as keen as her appetite. The fork hovered in mid air and her gaze took on the sharpness of a knife blade. "What suggestion?"
"Why, that his secretary undertake to make some inquiries into the Greeley claim," answered Harold as he slid into his chair and motioned for a fresh pot of tea to be brought out. "An excellent idea, Twi
ck," he said with a knowing smirk. "Bringing your influence to bear on the matter should help resolve things up in a trice, eh?"
His grandmother relaxed enough to resume her attack on a slab of beefsteak.
Harold's attention then turned to Zara. "Miss Greeley, I have never seen quite that shade of color before." He raised his quizzing glass and leaned in a bit closer. "Tell me, what do you call it—vagabond brown?"
Prestwick was about to fire off a warning shot at his cousin, but the young lady quickly showed she was capable of manning her own guns.
"It is actually closer to a briny grey." She squinted at his coat. "Subtle differences in tone are no doubt hard to distinguish for someone who favors peacock blue."
The duke hid a smile behind his napkin.
Her second salvo came hard on the first. After studying Harold's oversized buttons, she leaned back, exaggerating a blink. "I had not realized that brass these days was so... exceeding bright."
Harold's mouth twisted in a petulant pout. "Obviously, you have not been to London, or you would know this is the very first crack of fashion."
"Indeed?" The skeptical lift of her eyebrow spoke louder than her soft murmur. "The duke's valet had mentioned to me that His Grace was considered a leading arbiter of Town style." She glanced at Prestwick, pointedly taking in the restrained elegance of his low-cut collar, navy coat and dark waistcoat.
"My cousin and I move in different circles," murmured the duke. "Which accounts for our difference in sartorial tastes."
A dull flush rose to Harold's cheeks as he suspected he had been dealt an oblique set-down. Unable to muster a suitable reply, he lapsed into a sulky silence and began to butter a piece of toast. But upon the entrance of Nonny several minutes later, he sensed an easier target for his gibes and quickly switched his attack.
"Ah, good morning, Master Greeley."
Nonny answered with a tentative smile. "Good morning, sir."
"I say, Grandmama, it is interesting, is it not, how fashions for young gentlemen have changed on the Continent." Raking an eye over frayed sleeves protruding from the lad's outgrown jacket, he smoothed at his pointed lapel. "I shall have to ask my tailor whether it is possible to construct just such a cuff on my shirts. Perhaps I could start a new trend—I could call it La Rustique. Or perhaps Le Primitive."
Lady Farrington tittered. "La, you are such a wit, Harold."
The young Greeley colored in embarrassment and gave a self-conscious tug at his sleeve.
"You are such a widgeon," muttered Prestwick under his breath. He could practically see the sparks shooting out from the red highlights of Zara's hair, and braced himself for an imminent explosion. Sure enough, she opened her mouth, then seemed to think better of it.
Well done, Miss Greeley. He gave an inward nod of approval at her show of restraint. Further fireworks might only exacerbate the lad's humiliation. He was not quite so far in his dotage to have forgotten how devilishly awkward one felt during the transition between boyhood and manhood. And how devilishly sensitive. The slightest cut could leave a deep scar.
Putting down his knife with a sharpness that rattled his plate, the duke pushed back his chair. "I seem to recall that Uncle Aubrey was an aficionado of sailing ships, and acquired an extensive collection of books on yacht design. As you were interested in the particulars of Nereid's rig, perhaps you would care to have a look at them when you are finished with your breakfast, Nonny."
Letting his half eaten roll drop back to his plate, the lad nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to rise.
"They won't haul anchor before you have had a chance to do justice to Monsieur Henri's shirred eggs and gammon," said Prestwick with a smile. "Take your time. I shall have one of the footman lay them out for you, along with paper and pens in case you would like to make some notes."
"T-thank you, sir. That's awfully kind of you."
Studiously ignoring the choking sound that was coming from his great aunt, he allowed his smile to stretch a bit broader. "Oh, not really. After all, there is a good chance, isn't there, that they already belong to you."
Seeing that he had effectively knocked the remaining wind out of his cousin's sails, he rose. "If you have, er, finished with your meal, Miss Greeley... " His gaze fell on the remains of her food, which had been mashed into an amorphous lump. "Might I have a private word with you in the parlor?"
She folded her napkin and stood up.
"Is French cooking not to your taste?" he inquired dryly, once they were in the corridor.
"If that is yet another gibe at our heathen manners, sir, don't waste your breath. I have no pretensions to having the faintest glimmer of Town bronze."
His cousin had not been far off the mark in his comment on the drabness of her gown, thought Prestwick. Yet despite the faded muslin, raveling seams and loose threads, the young lady carried herself with a simple dignity that would have done a duchess proud.
"As for breakfast," she continued. "Our tastes—as you know all too well—hardly run to haute cuisine. If our presence at meals offends your refined sensibilities, we should be just as happy to dine in the kitchen with the help." Her chin rose, "Or, if you prefer, we could erect a spit in the back gardens."
His lips quirked upward for an instant before his expression turned more serious. "It was not my intention to tender any insult, Miss Greeley. I was merely wondering if there were some other dishes you might favor. You see, Monsieur Henri is extremely volatile—if he catches sight of your plate, I fear he may storm out of the kitchen and turn in his toque before the nuncheon. And I was so looking forward to crème brulee for pudding."
"Well, you will just have—" She bit off her retort and shot him an odd look. "Y-you are teasing me, are you not?"
"Just a little," he admitted, finding that he was almost as surprised as she was. Why, he wondered, did he rather enjoy watching anger heat her eyes to such a fiery intensity?
"Hmmph." A frown furrowed her brow, but it was more one of puzzlement than of indignation.
"You did say that humor is sometimes the best way to defuse a tense situation." Prestwick stepped aside and gestured for her to enter the parlor. "I apologize for the behavior of Lady Farrington and Harold. It is they who are displaying the manners of savages."
"I suppose they cannot be blamed for resenting a stranger appearing out of the blue to lay claim to what they consider rightfully theirs."
"Nonetheless, I will not tolerate such overt rudeness."
Once again, her expression betrayed a hint of surprise, as well as some other emotion he could not quite define. "I owe you thanks for coming to Nonny's defense. That was... quite decent of you."
"Does that come as such a shock?" He had meant it to come out lightly, but the words hung a bit heavy in the air.
The young lady turned to look out the window. The morning sun, though muted by a mist rising up from the gardens, threw in harsh relief the shadows smudged under her eyes and the lines etched around the corners of her mouth. Prestwick found himself wanting to reach out and smooth a bit of the worry from her drawn cheeks, yet he stilled the twitch of his fingers with the reminder that she would likely not welcome the gesture.
For some reason, that bothered him more than he cared to admit. He did not like to think she saw him as being cut from the same cloth as his relatives.
"All of this comes as a bit of a shock, Your Grace," she replied wearily, the wave of her hand encompassing the furnishings of the room and the manicured grounds beyond the mullioned panes of glass. "Your cousin's taunts have some truth to them. We stand out like sore thumbs in your world, and the intricacies of Polite Society are quite foreign to us."
Hearing the note of uncertainty in her voice, Prestwick sought to buck up her spirits. "Come now, you have weathered far more daunting situations in your travels. I daresay you will have no trouble learning how to go about. To begin with, I was going to suggest a trip into town this afternoon, so that I can arrange for the three of you to acquire a new wardr
obe—"
Her spine immediately went rigid. "I don't want your money, sir. I am quite capable of taking care of my family without having to stoop to accepting the charity—or pity—of strangers."
"Hell's teeth, Miss Greeley! Stop cutting up stiff on me." His earlier sympathy dissolved in a snort of frustration. "I thought you smarter than to let foolish pride override cold reason. If it makes the offer any less repugnant, it is not my money I am offering. The funds will come out of Uncle Aubrey's estate—which, by your own claim, already belong to Nonny. How can you have any objection to that?"
"V-very well. I suppose, since you put it that way, there is no reason to refuse," she said slowly.
"Good," he answered with equal chilliness. "I shall have the carriage brought around after nuncheon."
* * *
Zara grimaced as the door fell shut with a suspiciously loud thud. Sliding down into one of the wing chairs by the hearth, she propped her chin in her hand and sighed. With her savage temperament and tongue, she was clearly unsuited to life among the civilized ton. Only look at how she seemed to bring out the worst in a highly proper gentleman like the duke.
Not that it mattered, she assured herself. She really had no desire to flit about in the drawing rooms and ballrooms of London, allowed herself no more meaningful expression than rendering boring little flower arrangements in watercolor, or tittering over the latest bits of vicious gossip.
Her gaze drifted to the Gainsborough portrait of the late baron and she suddenly found her fingers itching for brush and palette. Or at least pastel and pencil. It had been an age since she had been able to devote any time to her work, and she had missed it dearly. Her art gave her an outlet for her emotions, and a place of refuge where she might shed, if only for a few hours, the mundane problems that weighed upon her. More than that, it let her imagination soar.
Her sketchbook and materials were safety tucked away in the bottom of her bag. If she skipped the noontime meal, she would have time enough to find a quiet spot in the gardens and fill a few pages with sketches.
A Stroke of Luck Page 10