by Jane Ashford
“And join in all the celebrations,” she added. “Without any grumbling.”
“Naturally.”
He said it as if the whole disaster had been of her making. Georgina had to stifle something very like a growl.
Her father’s square chin came up, and a new thought lit his green eyes. “We’ll have to organize some proper shooting for Langford’s visit.” He rubbed his hands together gleefully, as if the uproar over the wedding had never occurred. “Do you care for it, Mitra?”
“Shooting what?” the other man asked.
“Birds, at this season. Pheasant, partridge.”
Mitra shook his head.
“Ah, right. You don’t eat ’em. I imagine you don’t shoot ’em either.”
“You are correct.”
Nearly unable to contain her exasperation and bemusement and relief, Georgina left them to it. Outside the library door, she nearly tripped over Hilda, who’d obviously been listening at the keyhole. “How did you even know we were in there?” But it was a silly question. Somehow, even in the confines of her bedchamber, Hilda learned such things.
“You were amazing!” exclaimed her youngest sister. “Heroic. Or…heroine-ic. Is that a word? I want to be just like you when I’m older.”
“Heroic seems a bit strong.” Georgina realized that she was trembling. She’d been all right in the heat of the argument. Now she was ready to sink.
“No, it doesn’t. The way you laid matters out for Papa? I wish Mama had been here. She might have learned something.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“I’m not,” Hilda replied. “She shouts at him, but she never bothers to give him proper reasons.”
Embarrassed and curiously flattered, Georgina turned away. She wanted to give Sebastian the good news. And to throw herself into his arms, she thought, if she possibly could. She needed the safety and comfort of that newfound haven.
Fourteen
The Gresham brothers had taken refuge in a reception room on the other side of the entry hall, leaving the door ajar. As the sounds from the library mounted, Sebastian wondered if he ought to charge in on a support mission for Georgina. He hadn’t been any help with her mother. When it was a matter of fencing with words rather than sabers, he was hardly of the first rank.
He could stand at her side, however. A fellow officer had once told him that he’d tipped the scales of a confrontation simply by looming, large and menacing. Of course, it wouldn’t do to threaten his future father-in-law. Unless he tried to bully Georgina. In which case… As Sebastian hesitated, indecisive, they saw Hilda slip down the stairs and across the hall, crouch by the library door, and apply her ear to the keyhole.
“That girl is extraordinarily…enterprising,” remarked Randolph.
Sebastian nodded. He was more reluctant to move now that he had to pass a gatekeeper.
From their vantage point, the brothers could hear nothing but noise from the library. Sebastian tried to judge how it was going from the changes in Hilda’s expression. She seemed mainly amazed.
Not long after this, the door opened. Sebastian stepped forward as Hilda sprang back. Georgina came out, spoke to Hilda, and then saw him waiting. She rushed over and into the reception room, coming to an abrupt stop before the empty hearth. “Oh, you’re both here,” she said. She waited a moment, then added, “I spoke to Papa.”
“At high volume,” commented Randolph. His attempt at a joke fell flat.
Talking quickly, Georgina told them what had been said. “So everything is back as it was,” she finished. “It was all a tempest in a teapot.”
If only that was true, Sebastian thought. If only he could roll back the last few days and erase the gloomy thoughts they’d provoked. “Oh…good,” he said.
Georgina looked distinctly disappointed. Sebastian tried to muster a more satisfying reaction, but before he could find the words, she repeated, “Good,” in a strangled voice and rushed out. Sebastian silently cursed his inarticulate tongue. He took out his frustration on a nearby ottoman, giving it a kick.
“I should have left you alone,” Randolph said. “I’m sorry. I was so taken by the story, I didn’t think.”
Sebastian kicked the ottoman again. The thing scarcely budged. It might have been stuffed with rocks.
“I’ll go and call her back,” Randolph said. “You two will want…”
“It doesn’t matter,” interrupted Sebastian. He thought of how, so recently, he’d longed, desperately prayed, for a few minutes alone with his fiancée. Now, he couldn’t hold her, couldn’t kiss her, without wondering if he was obliged to spoil everything.
“So, all’s well again,” said Randolph.
“Unh.”
“It sounds like quite the epic scene. It seems you’re getting a strong-minded wife.”
“What?” Sebastian looked up. Randolph was examining him curiously. Had he given himself away somehow?
“Do you mind?”
“Mind what?” As he often did, he’d missed something. He had no idea what his brother was talking about.
“That Georgina is, um, such a spirited debater.”
“Of course not.” Sebastian was surprised at the question. “Why should I?”
“Well, I suppose because she’s likely to turn her skills on you at some point. And a woman who can outtalk a Stane is…well, rather formidable.”
The word skills made Sebastian think of something quite different. An intensely tactile memory flashed through him, of Georgina’s legs wrapped around his ribs as they kissed. He turned away from his brother to hide a flush. “If she does, I expect I’ll have deserved it. She’s far cleverer than I.”
Randolph blinked. “You…ah…you noticed?” He coughed. “That is, do you think so?”
Sebastian snorted. “I wager everyone thinks so.”
“Yes, but… I mean, no.”
“Did you think I was too stupid to realize it?” he asked bitterly.
“I do not think you stupid.”
But Sebastian had no patience, in this moment, for kindly meant lies. “Why shouldn’t Georgina speak her mind?” he asked, returning to his brother’s original question. “Imagine what Mama would have done if someone had forbidden her marriage.”
“That’s rather difficult to picture. Papa is a duke, after all.”
“Something else she wanted then.”
Randolph considered this for several moments. “Ah. I see what you mean. A different style, of course, but equally forceful.”
“Exactly.” In fact, Sebastian admired Georgina’s strength of mind immensely. He’d said so, hadn’t he?
Silence fell. Sebastian didn’t really notice. He was pondering the unfairness of life. He should be happy right now. As far as anyone else knew, all the unexpected obstacles had been cleared from his path. But, oh no, he’d had to create more of his own. He kicked the ottoman again.
“What’s the matter then?” Randolph said.
“Nothing. You should go along and…do something else.”
“I want to help you, to mend matters.”
“So your job’s done then.”
“But the thing is, Sebastian, you don’t seem to think so.”
Evading his brother’s steady gaze, Sebastian tried for a light tone, and thought he achieved a remarkable result under the circumstances. “Nobody’s eloped. Georgina’s father’s turned up sweet. The wedding’s back on. I’m tip-top, Randolph.”
“Good.”
And still his brother didn’t go. “There’s no need to hang about watching me as if I was a raree-show.”
“No, I wasn’t. I’m very glad all’s well. And I also wanted… That is—” Randolph stopped.
“What?” Sebastian peered at his brother, curiosity overcoming his self-absorption. There was something odd about Randolph recently. He hadn’t
reeled off any verses of poetry in days, or amused himself with wordplay that flashed over Sebastian’s head.
Randolph shuffled his feet. “I wondered if you could do me a favor.”
Sebastian was startled. “Oh. Is that it? What do you need?” It was an unusual but not unprecedented request.
“Would you…would you write and ask Nathaniel to procure a lute?”
Sebastian felt his mouth fall a little open.
“One probably has to look in London, you see. I imagine they’re not particularly easy to find.”
“What the devil are you… What sort of loot do you imagine Nathaniel can get his hands on? He’s a viscount, not a dashed buccaneer.”
“Not loot,” replied Randolph. “Lute. L-u-t-e. It’s a musical instrument.”
“Instrument?”
“It’s stringed, something like a guitar.” Looking embarrassed, Randolph mimed holding a guitar and strumming.
“You don’t play the guitar. Do you? I thought you said you hadn’t much time for music any longer.” Randolph nodded. For the life of him, Sebastian couldn’t interpret his brother’s expression.
“Would you just do it and not press me?” Randolph asked. “As a brotherly gesture of goodwill.”
When he put it like that, Sebastian could hardly refuse. “But why not ask Nathaniel yourself?” It would certainly be far easier for Randolph to dash off a letter, though he didn’t mention that part.
“I’d rather not,” his brother replied.
“Is there something off about these…lutes?”
“Of course not.” But his brother looked embarrassed.
“Then why get me to ask?” Sebastian eyed him suspiciously. “Is it a prank of some kind? I request this lute thing, and everyone gets a good laugh out of it?”
“No, it’s nothing like that!”
“Why then?”
“Well…it is a rather odd request.”
Sebastian waited for more. Then, finally, he got it. “And the family already thinks I’ve run mad.”
“No they don’t!” But Randolph looked away.
“Daft Sebastian, raving on about packs of pugs and mysterious Hindus, eloping with his own fiancée.”
“It isn’t like that!” Randolph exclaimed. “But…you did ask for an ointment to repel the dogs.”
He’d known almost from the moment that particular letter was posted that he’d gone too far there, Sebastian thought. Sykes had been right; they should have left it out. But at the time, he’d been desperate. Sebastian touched his pocket. It held the ragged cloth animal he now carried with him everywhere. Like a dashed talisman. Perhaps he had lost his mind. Maybe that was his real problem. “I suppose you’ve already written to someone about my previous existence as a tattooed Welsh savage?”
Randolph did not meet his eyes.
“Of course you have. No Gresham could resist a story that good.” How agreeable it was to have a family that shared all their news, Sebastian thought bitterly. Letters—which he produced with such difficulty—flew back and forth among them as if they were a damned flock of carrier pigeons. The situation definitely had a lot of that thing Robert was always nattering about. Irony, that was the word.
“Mama was asking how things were going,” Randolph muttered.
He looked positively hangdog. Sebastian couldn’t bear it. He gave in. “Oh, very well,” he said.
“Thank you!” For a moment he thought Randolph was going to shake his hand. Instead, he added, “I really appreciate it.”
“Enough to tell me why you want the thing?”
Randolph shook his head, looking away again. “Not quite that much. Until I see, you know, how it comes out.”
It was probably some expression or remark he’d missed along the way, Sebastian decided. Sort of thing that happened to him all the time. No need to emphasize his ignorance by persisting. “All right.”
With a grateful nod, Randolph departed. Sebastian returned to his earlier brooding. He got nowhere, and after a while, he gave it up as a bad job and went upstairs to ring for Sykes. Might as well get the letter done. He wasn’t accomplishing anything useful loitering in an empty parlor, acting like a mooncalf.
Sykes answered the bell with his customary speed and took up the pen without comment. Sebastian noticed that this instrument did pause over the page at the mention of a lute. “That’s l-u-t-e,” he spelled out helpfully.
Sykes blinked at him. “The medieval musical instrument?” Here was Sykes the playwright, rather than the impassive valet. The former had been appearing more and more often at Stane Castle, and more strongly under the onslaught of strange events. It was as if the barrier between the two roles was weakening. This Sykes looked frankly curious and astonished.
“Is it medieval?” Randolph hadn’t said anything about that. But then, he’d been dashed mysterious.
“Well, I know it was much used by the troubadours.” Sykes considered. “Would that make it Renaissance?”
Sebastian hoped Sykes was asking himself, because he had no idea. “What’s a troubadour?”
“A minstrel, a singer. Centuries ago, they composed songs and sang at the great chateaus and royal courts. Mostly French, weren’t they? The name Eleanor of Aquitaine occurs to me. I’m not entirely sure why.”
Sebastian watched him, marveling. The other man’s thin face and brown eyes were alight with interest. He could just about see Sykes’s mind racing. “You’re never at a loss, are you, Sykes? How do you know so much?”
“Books, mostly.” Sykes gestured toward the lower floors. “There’s an extraordinary library here. I store up facts for later use. Never know what might be just the thing I need for creating a fresh character.”
His brain must be stuffed full as a Christmas goose, Sebastian thought. It sounded deuced uncomfortable. “Right. Well, that’s it. A lute.”
Sykes gazed at him, his expression intensely inquisitive. “I suppose your brother will wonder why you want it.”
Sebastian started to tell him that the instrument was for Randolph, and then wondered if he’d been told this in confidence. His brother hadn’t said so outright, but he felt somehow that he had. “Ah, er, it’s just a whim of mine.”
“A…whim.” Sykes spoke the word as if it was incomprehensible.
Meeting his skeptical look, direct and with no trace of deference, Sebastian realized that the time had nearly come, whether Sykes was aware of it or not. His valet wouldn’t be with him much longer. Sykes the playwright would take over for good and all. That certainty roused a tremor of anxiety. An unwelcome, unacceptable loneliness put an edge on his reply. “That’s it. A lute.”
There was a fraught silence, as if something trembled in the air between them. Then Sykes set pen to paper again and said, “Indeed, my lord.” He was the consummate valet once again.
Sebastian was glad to see it. There were no unsettling complications with this Sykes. “Oh, and tell Nathaniel all’s well,” he added. “Randolph wrote Mama about the…the barbarian thing. Say that’s all over with and the wedding’s going on as scheduled.”
“I’m very pleased to hear that, my lord.”
Sebastian nodded. The family would probably conclude that Randolph had saved his bacon. He found he resented that. “Tell him Lady Georgina fixed it up,” he said, giving credit where it was due.
“Her ladyship is very resourceful.”
Fleetingly, Sebastian imagined that his valet’s tone was regretful. But that couldn’t be right. “She is, isn’t she?” He lost himself in thoughts of his betrothed’s many beguiling qualities.
“Will there by anything else, my lord?”
“What?”
Sykes indicated the letter.
“Oh. No. Just the usual closing.”
Nodding, Sykes completed the missive, folded it, and added a warmed wax seal. He
passed it over, and Sebastian applied his signet ring. Retrieving the completed letter, Sykes rose. “I’ll leave this for his lordship’s messenger,” he said.
“Yes.” Sebastian stood and stretched. Somehow a letter always seemed a heavy task, even the way he did it. And how would he do it without Sykes? “Huh” escaped him.
His valet paused by the door. “Was there something else, my lord?”
Sykes stood poised, alert, the picture of a man ready to grapple with any problem. Sebastian was struck anew by how much Sykes had helped him over the years. He would be a great loss. “Thank you.”
Sykes bowed. “Of course, my lord.”
Sebastian wanted to say more, but he didn’t know what. It just seemed he should take advantage of whatever time he had left with his clever aide.
With his customary acuity, Sykes sensed it. He waited.
“Marriage is a big step,” Sebastian said, rather surprising himself.
The valet acknowledged this with a gesture that was half a nod, half a bow.
“It lasts for the rest of your life. Could be forty years. Decades anyway.” Sebastian heard how ridiculous this sounded. If only he could force words to convey what he meant. Assuming that he knew what he meant. Which, in this case, he didn’t.
“Are you all right?” said Sykes.
People kept asking him this. He must look as bewildered and worried as he felt, which made it worse. “The thing is…I’ve been thinking.”
Sykes gazed at him, more the canny, intelligent friend than the valet once again.
Sebastian felt another impulse of gratitude. His brothers might well have made a joke of that remark: Hold hard, everybody; Sebastian is thinking! “Wondering, you know, what…what do you owe the…the person you’re marrying?”
“Owe?”
He’d snagged the right word this time, Sebastian thought. Owe put it in a nutshell. But he wasn’t sure how to explain further. “As you’re getting acquainted, before the wedding. Many fellows don’t, of course. Meet during the season, dance a few waltzes, too many glasses of champagne one night, and they find themselves on one knee making an offer.” This wasn’t going well. He blundered onward. “Next thing they know, hey presto, married, when they hardly know each other. Can’t blame them for leaving out a few details. But if you have the time?”