"New axle, new hubs, new shafts."
"The fourgon?"
Henry shook his head. "Needs new wheels, the near side."
"Yes, I was afraid they had cracked too badly to fix."
Henry peered at his friend, who seemed distracted, then looked at Lady Alianora just descending from the crest of the hill. “May leave after nuncheon."
"So soon," Cerestone said softly.
"Best."
Peter looked at his friend then slowly nodded. Henry was right. If he remained here any longer . . .
"Yes, it is best to leave," he agreed. It was the strangeness of this place that was attracting him so to Lady Alianora. When they reached town, he was sure he would barely remember her.
He escorted Lady Alianora to the mews and then left. She watched him leave, wondering how he could be so sympathetic and yet so distant. Who could say? They had known each other less than a day, and yet he had already sent ripples through her serenity. Shaking her head, she concentrated instead on the goshawk, admiring her fierce beauty for the last time. Stephen stood on the ground beside Geoffrey, his gloved hand outstretched.
“It was a fine session, my lady," he said, smiling.
She lowered the hawk. "Yes, I shall truly miss it." Belisande stepped back onto Stephen's hand and he took it into the building. He removed the hood and placed it on its perch, reaching into a game bag for the freshly killed rabbit to feed it. Alianora turned away.
Lord Savernake strode into the stable yard as she stopped Geoffrey by the mounting block and slid off his huge back. She patted the old horse, saying farewell with a long luxurious scratching along the neck. A groom waited patiently until she was finished then led the horse away.
Catching the long, velvet skirt over her arm, she stepped down to the yard, coming immediately upon the earl, who walked with only the slightest of limps. She awaited him; her father had taught her that it was better to face a problem than avoid it.
"You . . . you are well?" she asked, forcing herself to be civil.
He grimaced. "It was not pleasant, but I have survived. An unfortunate choice of mounts, I fear." He laughed a little, harshly. "I would be pleased to escort you to the house."
She could see the terrace from where she stood. She brightened. "Oh, there is Percy." He disappeared inside.
"He is more than likely hunting for your father,” Savernake told her.
She looked down and sighed. She had overheard William upbraid poor Percy behind the library doors in a voice loud enough to carry to the second story. What her father could do for her younger brother she had no idea. William oversaw all the estate business now.
The appearance of the head gardener's children interrupted them and saved her from a walk with the earl. They had a large, brindled dog with them. It saw Alianora and stood up, putting its big paws on her shoulders, licking her face. She laughed, buried her nose in his coat.
"I shall miss you, Apollo,” she told the dog, then gently pushed the animal from her. She looked at the children. "Davey, Molly, how are you this morning?"
"We're right fine, m'lady,” said the boy most politely. His eyes, however, were wide with excitement. "Oh, m’lady, you must come see. You must."
His sister, two years his junior, nodded so vigorously that her dark curls bounced around her pinafore.
Alianora smiled, hardly noticing the dance the earl was performing in order to avoid Apollo's affections. "What is it, Davey? Something good?"
"Our rose, m’lady. Our rose has opened. Please, please come see. Da says you must look on't 'fore the dew is gone."
"Our rose has bloomed,” she said thoughtfully. "How lovely! The first spring rose."
"Da'll set it in the garden today, if it comes warm enough."
"He's in the succession house now?"
Molly and Davey nodded. She held out a hand to each of them.
"Then let us have a look at our rose. Excuse me, my lord." She hardly glanced in his direction. Apollo ran after them.
"Tell us the rose story, m’lady. Molly wants to hear it." Davey's voice trailed away as they walked across the lawn.
"Well, there once was a lovely young lady named Beauty . . ." Of course, Alianora's version of The Romaunt of the Rose differed a good deal from Chaucer's, but he was not around to be scandalized.
The earl stood for a moment, staring in a most ungenteel manner—one might even call the stare vulgar—after the trio, mouth slightly agape. A look of puzzlement then amazement then annoyance crossed his face, then he straightened his torn jacket and walked stiffly up to the manor.
Chapter Four
When they arrived in London, Henry dropped Cerestone off at his home in Grosvenor Square and he and Buck continued on to the Albany, where the two of them would share Buck's rooms.
The viscount stared up at the gray stone facade of Hurst House as he stepped down from the carriage. It had been five years since he'd last visited here and then only briefly, to see that all was secured after his father's death. He walked up the few steps and the door swung inward.
"Beeley," he greeted.
"Welcome, my lord. We was wondering when you'd arrive, precisely," said Beeley, taking the viscount's hat and coat.
"Ah yes, we did stop along the way."
"As we expected you should, my lord, knowing your interests." "We did have some difficulty with the coach. No one was hurt, however," he added.
Beeley, Mrs. Chumdale, the housekeeper, and several maidservants had come up from Woodhurst to ready the town house for spring.
"Mrs. Chumdale has a light supper prepared, my lord; if you'd prefer, it could be served in the library."
Cerestone's eyes lit. "Why, yes. The library to be sure."
"I’ll just inform Mrs. Chumdale." He left, handing the viscount's things to a footman.
Cerestone walked past the Yellow Saloon, the stairway, past a large, old, long-case clock that ticked quietly, and into the library at the back of the house.
It was a dark room with the deep sheen of mahogany paneling. Someone had tied back the maroon velvet curtains and the evening sun splayed across the plum, blue, and gold Turkish carpet, hardly adding one candle's worth of light. Peter walked slowly around, glancing over the shelves of books that reached to the ceiling, enjoying the slightly musty, leathery odor. He should have had these books transferred to Woodhurst and combined with those he was working on.
Beeley entered with a loaded tray and set it on a carved, heavy desk. "Madeira, my lord, with supper. Tawny, as you prefer."
"Thank you, Beeley," Cerestone said as he completed his circuit, stopping before the hearth in which burned a lively, crackling fire.
"All is in order here, my lord," Beeley informed him. "Holland covers removed, linen aired."
The viscount pointed at the ceiling, lifting his eyebrows. Above the library could be found the drawing room. "Sideboards well stocked?"
Beeley bowed slightly, a twinkle in his brown eyes. "With my lady's favorite sherry."
"Good man."
Beeley then carefully lit a branch of candles and set it on the desk. "Shall you require anything else, my lord?"
The viscount moved to study another shelf of books. "No, not tonight. I believe I shall retire early. It's been quite a long day."
Beeley bowed and left the library, pulling the door shut behind him.
Choosing a book on the history of the Edwards, Peter carried it to the desk and sat down, staring at the Moroccan red leather binding, the gold foil stamping. The Edwards. Why choose this particular book? He knew why. .
Laying the book aside, he started on the roast beef, attempted the parsley potatoes, struggled through the deviled kidneys, finally pushing the plate away, appetite deserting him. He stood up and moved around the desk to a comfortable, overstuffed chair by the fireplace, carrying the Madeira decanter with him.
For a while he savored the wine while anticipating visits to booksellers, to museums, to any number of literary salons, but little by lit
tle thoughts of a girl dressed as a medieval maiden intruded—how the Madeira, when held up to the firelight, was as pale and golden as her hair. He lowered his glass. What foolishness! He was no romantic. He was practical, sensible, and he was quite happy with his books and his friends. He did not need anyone else in his life.
With that decided, he proceeded to empty the decanter. Eyes drooping, he found himself imagining Lady Alianora—Alianora, saying her name aloud to himself—sitting in this very library, gracefully plucking at her psaltery, singing a soft ballad as he read by the fire.
No, he thought, as he fell asleep in the chair. What a farrago of romantic nonsense . . .he was a historian not a Gothic novelist.
He awoke early the next morning when a maid carrying a coal bucket tripped over his outstretched legs. She apologized profusely, miserably, and he assured her it was entirely his fault. Saying that he would leave her to her work, Cerestone walked up the stairway to his own undisturbed bed.
His mouth felt as if he had stuffed it with cotton, his head felt swollen, his neck objected to any attempt at straightening. There were times when he wished his servants weren't so compulsively thoughtful. One punch to the shoulder, one kick in the shins and he would have gladly sought his bed. Tench would have had no such reservations, but he had remained behind to supervise the fourgon's repair.
He should not have enjoyed the Madeira quite so much. Undressing, he pulled back the covers, and fell onto the cool linen sheets.
He slept until the afternoon when Tench entered the room with a loud "Lovely day, my lord," and proceeded to expose the room to sunlight.
Cerestone cringed then realized he felt better; even his neck was rather more flexible now. He sat up, sniffing.
"Coffee, Tench," he said in a hoarse voice.
"Jamaican, my lord, with just that touch of rum and vanilla." Tench lifted the silver urn steaming on a side table and poured the coffee into a china cup decorated with tiny blue flowers. He presented it to the viscount.
"Ah, a rum touch, and it's fresh," Peter sighed after sipping it.
"I stopped at Garroway's upon arriving, my lord. They had a ship newly arrived with a hold full of the beans."
"What luck." He finished the cup and held it out for more. Tench obliged then continued laying out the viscount's clothes for the afternoon. Cerestone began to feel much better, quite human, in fact.
"Tench, I'm to meet Mr. Rasherly and Mr. Parkington at Hatchard's this afternoon."
"A little preliminary browsing, my lord?"
"Yes." He sighed at the unspoken request. "Is there perhaps a particular book you might possibly be interested in purchasing?"
"As a matter of fact, my lord—" Tench named five novels recently out of the Minerva Press.
"Tench," Cerestone asked between sips. "What is so terribly interesting about evil sultans, haunted castles, and fainting heroines?"
Tench drew up his stout chest indignantly. "There is far more to the stories than what you have suggested, Master Petey. For those of us who appreciate it there is fear, excitement, and, in particular, a good moral ending."
The viscount winced at the childish nickname. Tench used "Master Petey" only in private, he granted, in particular when he wished to be condescending.
He was far too tolerant, Cerestone realized. But what was one to do with someone who had put him on his first horse? Who had wiped away a small boy's lonely tears? Laid out his first pair of long pants?
"I suppose your value as a valet greatly masks your eccentricities," he allowed generously.
"A compliment, my lord. And so soon upon arising."
Cerestone choked. "What a complete hand you are, Tench."
"Yes, my lord."
"Have all the trunks arrived?" he asked after a moment.
"Some a little battered and water stained, otherwise intact, my lord." Tench cocked his head, touched his pocket. "Oh yes, several missives arrived while you was asleep. One, I believe, from Lady Finsbury, another from her daughter, Miss Cressida."
"Aunt Sophia," the viscount said as if the name were bitters dropped into his cup. "I might have realized she would be watching."
Lady Finsbury was the sister of his stepmother, a woman possessed of a loud, displeasing voice and pushy personality, who lived just across the square. For some time now she had been throwing her daughter Cressida his way. And Cressida, a duplicate of her mother, being only the tiniest bit more clever, was nothing loath to this idea. Peter remembered the presence of his friends with particular gratitude.
"Throw them in the fire," Cerestone ordered hopefully.
"My lord!"
"Oh, all right, Tench. I'll read them after breakfast."
A little more than half an hour later he was at table, enjoying the Morning Post. He was dressed in a comfortable coat of bottle green kerseymere and buff breeches, cravat rather simply and loosely tied, hair combed into shining waves. He ate absently, spreading the newspaper out on the table before him. Before he could turn to the fourth page, he was interrupted by Beeley who stood at the door, clearing his throat in an urgent manner.
The viscount looked up. "What is it?" He did not like to be disturbed at breakfast, even if he was taking breakfast at teatime.
"They have arrived, my lord," the butler announced.
"They? They who?"
"Lady Cerestone and her—entourage."
The viscount jumped up immediately, walked to the window and looked out upon the square.
"You mean 'cavalcade,' Beeley. Good God, what a mass of luggage. How many carriages are there?" He counted. "Four. It appears as if we're setting up a blockade out there." Cerestone frowned. "Were they to arrive today? I had it in my mind for next week."
Beeley looked a little regretful. "This was to be the day, my lord, precisely. Only we imagined they would arrive in the evening."
"Yes, a pity," the viscount mumbled grumpily. "I must send an excuse to my friends. Beeley, stay a moment." He walked to the drawing room, dashed off a note, and handed it to the butler. For now, he must delay his pleasure. He then went down the stairs.
The dowager viscountess was just descending from the carriage with the help of a footman. She was dressed, or one might say more precisely, was draped in a cloud of celestial blue dimity generously flounced and a traveling cape of deep blue wool. A bonnet of fawn twilled sarcenet decorated with ribbon rosettes covered her dark curls. In her hands she carried a parasol of fawn silk with a fringed awning and a net reticule heavy with medicinal bottles. She looked up at her stepson with tragic eyes.
"What a trial, my dear," she said softly, faintly. "These dear children have driven me to distraction. I simply must have a long rest. You do not mind that we descend en masse this way?"
What could he say? He kissed her upheld cheek. "No, Mama. You were expected."
"Good. Now, my dear, will you see that everyone is settled? I will just speak to Mrs. Chumdale to apprise her of our needs and then will rest at last. However, Peter, I must speak to you before you leave for one of your clubs. And, of course, you will see that a doctor is engaged for Fanny."
"Yes, of course. Is she not improving?"
"Not as one would wish. I believe she has missed you, but then one can never tell with that child. Such a reticent mind. Not as sociable as our dear Georgy. Or Georgina as she prefers now."
His mouth tightened. "I'll try to keep that in mind."
With an airy wave that sent clouds of otto of roses his way, she turned and gracefully ascended the steps.
The viscount moved to the door of the carriage, ordering the footman to help with the luggage, but stepped back quickly when a little bundle of energy exploded from the vehicle.
"Bobbin!" Cerestone called as his six-year-old half brother, Robert, ran into the house. The small boy returned to the door.
"Peter! We are here at last!"
"So one may observe. I could wish a little less haste, however."
"We have Hector with us. May we leave for the park so
on? Mama says there is a park Hector may run in.”
"Later, youngling. For now, go on in and look around the house," he offered. "Touch nothing as yet. I will show you what you may play with. Understood?"
The boy nodded, his face the good-natured image of the late viscount. The viscount turned to hand out his eldest half sibling, Georgina. She greeted him coolly, neither smiling nor frowning. Her clothes reflected her mother's taste, light, frilly. Georgina, unfortunately, had inherited her grandmother's looks, a face that was broad, a nose a shade too long, but style and demeanor, as well as her generous portion, would make her a success.
"Georgina, you are looking extremely well,” he observed.
"I have been quite happy away from Woodhurst," she replied. Meaning, of course, that she was quite happy wherever he was not. She had still not forgiven him for the Savernake episode.
"We should have a talk very soon," he told her.
"If you mean to be horrid and tell me what I cannot do, I won't listen," she warned him in a voice that moved from cool sophistication to childish petulance.
"You are still quite young, Georgina."
"I am quite old enough."
"Yes, and that is the problem," he said, shaking his head as she flounced into the house. Cerestone then climbed into the carriage and sat down beside his youngest sister.
"Well Fannikins, at long last I have you again."
"Oh, Peter," she said, smiling in a remarkably mature and friendly fashion for a ten-year-old. Although it was not cold, she was swathed in shawls, a small, pale face amid the cashmere.
"Mama tells me you have not recovered as you should from your Christmas illness."
"I am well enough," she said bravely.
"I think you did not enjoy your cousins."
She shook her head slowly, wispy strands of light brown hair escaping the shawl.
"Did you miss me?" he asked, then smiled as she nodded vigorously. "Well, we shall have to rectify that. Come, I'll carry you into the house." He gathered her into his arms and maneuvered carefully out onto the pavement.
"You'll have your own room overlooking the garden, with lots of sunshine. And tomorrow, perhaps Miss Tavisser could take you to the park. The sun will put some color into your cheeks."
Maid of Honor Page 5