Seeking Philbert Woodbead ( A Madcap Regency Romance ) (The Fairweather Sisters)

by Wylde, Anya

  The fat poet Philbert was momentarily forgotten.

  Chapter 19

  “I saw her with my own eyes,” the housekeeper insisted.

  “The duke let her in?” Celine asked in amazement.

  “Her grace wouldn’t have it otherwise.”

  “In other words she started crying.”

  “No, she threatened to sit on the duke.”

  Celine dismissed the housekeeper and made her way towards the dining room. What, she wondered, could Penelope want with a soothsayer?

  The dining room had been transformed. The heavy curtains had been closed blocking most of the natural light. The long dining table had been covered with a red velvet cloth, and the flickering candles illuminated the altar, which consisted of an ordinary looking rock stuffed inside an ochre hued silk stocking.

  This blessed stone was surrounded by odder looking things; namely a bowl of water, a dish of salt, a bell, colourful threads, virulent incense sticks, a comb, shiny buttons and a freshly decapitated bleeding chicken head.

  The room tickled her olfactory senses with upper notes of deep sandalwood, soft jasmine, mysterious myrrh, and with the base note of last evening’s dinner of boiled pork. It made her feel exotic, spiritual and hungry.

  Celine coughed her way towards the table where through the haze of smoke she spotted an unhappy duke, a pleased Lord Elmer, an eager duchess and a beautiful stranger.

  “You have candles burning and incense sticks smouldering,” Celine informed Penelope.

  “At ten in the morning,” the duke added with a yawn.

  “The dusty spirits and late gods need all these things to coax them into the right mood to answer questions,” Penelope replied spiritually.

  “Lusty spirits and great gods,” Miss Swan’s low timbered voice corrected.

  The duke chuckled.

  “Miss Swan is trying to concentrate,” Penelope hissed at him. She eyed Miss Swan apologetically and requested her to begin.

  Miss Swan closed her eyes, threw her hands up in the air and started chanting,

  Come, come, come, oh great elements,

  Arsey varsey and sort of malcontent.

  Come, come water, wind and fire,

  We are willing to throw up our children and all that you desire.

  “I object,” the duke objected, “I am not throwing my children anywhere.”

  Miss Swan opened her dark, mysterious eyes and sent him a sour look.

  “Perhaps another chant?” Penelope hastily requested, her hands clutched her belly protectively.

  Miss Swan nodded agreeably and opened her mouth and started again,

  Pooh, pah, pish and Pshaw,

  Let us chant equality before law.

  Celine sat down next to Lord Elmer. Once her skirts were arranged just so, she looked across at the energetically chanting Miss Swan.

  Miss Swan had a head full of shiny black curls on which perched a yellow turban. Her almond shaped dark eyes were lined with black pigment, and her sun kissed skin and full red lips appeared to be rouged. She wore a long green dress, wooden beads, and a pink rose in bloom was tucked behind her left ear. She had a bowl of water in front of her, and over it she held a pendulum.

  Celine reluctantly conceded that Miss Swan surrounded by twinkling candles was a pleasant sight to behold, and by the looks of George, she further concluded, Miss Swan appeared to unattached males as conducive to lovemaking.

  “What is going on?” Celine whispered in George’s ear.

  “Miss Elizabeth Swan is trying to find out if the duchess will have a boy or a girl,” George whispered back.

  His breath tickled her ear making it itch.

  “How?” Celine asked, delicately scratching her ear.

  “Magic,” George replied.

  “Did you tell Penelope about her?”

  “How did you guess?”

  “You said her name with a lot of—” She closed her mouth.

  “Affection,” George finished for her.

  “Danger,” Miss Swan’s throaty voice suddenly rang out halting their whispered conversation. “Danger is near. I can feel it.”

  Celine froze. A trickle of fear raced down her spine. It escaped just before hitting the top of her buttocks.

  “I can see,” Miss Swan continued, “water, blood, guns, an old gnarled woman, skulls and bones.” The pendulum in her hand started swinging to and fro.

  Penelope gulped, “I only asked if I was having a boy or a girl,” she said staring at Lord Elmer.

  “She is in trance,” Lord Elmer replied softly. “Listen to her and heed her advice. The trance comes on suddenly and only the chosen are privy to it.”

  “I don’t want to be chosen,” Penelope said in a small voice.

  “Quiet,” roared Miss Swan, “the vision swims, the vision swims … and I see …”

  Everyone in the room became deathly quiet waiting for Miss Swan’s next words.

  Celine leaned forward in her chair when a sudden soft rumbling sound followed by a snort made her jump.

  The duke had fallen asleep and was now peacefully snoring.

  Miss Swan opened her eyes and glared at the duke.

  Penelope stabbed the duke’s hand with a fork.

  He woke up with a start.

  She eyed him meaningfully and he eyed her back fearfully. A swift silent communication passed between them.

  The duke’s lashes jerked upwards, and his eyeballs whizzed in their sockets. He suddenly looked as awake as Sir Henry did after drinking half a cup of coffee. And good god did Sir Henry awaken if he drank a bit of the strong, fragrant Turkish brew.

  Sir Henry drinking coffee was an event in itself. The entire family gathered together to witness this spectacle. Even the upper servants stuck their ears to the door. First, Sir Henry would wait until the coffee cooled down to the right temperature. Thereafter, he would gingerly take a sip. The warm liquid would slide down his gullet and reach his stomach, and that was when the tremors started.

  The family would hold their breath, the servants strain their ears, and the duke would ready his flute. By the time Sir Henry finished the entire cup, the tremors turned into vigorous vibrations. His old bones rattled and clicked and squeaked, which the duke took as a cue to put the flute to his lips and begin a tune.

  The sounds of shaking old bones and achingly sweet flute would fill the room creating beautiful music. Sometimes the dowager would be moved to add her voice making it a rare musical treat.

  Satisfied that her silent threat had had the appropriate effect on the duke, Penelope turned back to Miss Swan, “What did you mean about the danger and how can it be averted?”

  Miss Swan’s delicate nostrils flared. “What it means only time shall reveal. Meanwhile, you can take some precautions. One way to accomplish this is by ensuring that your husband sings you to sleep every evening.”

  The duke smirked.

  “He must stay with you at all times until the child is born, and he must eat the same food as you do and drink your tonics as well.” This time Miss Swan smirked.

  “Even the bitter ones?” Penelope asked.

  “Only the bitter ones,” came the reply.

  “This is nonsense,” the duke began.

  “He must also do a lively spring dance for you every morning,” Miss Swan continued loudly. “It shall please mother earth.”

  “I shall not,” the duke spluttered.

  “He will have to wear your petticoats and go hunting for a black wolf on a full moon night. It shall please mother nature,” Miss Swan chanted.

  “I wouldn’t object if I were you,” Lord Elmer whispered to the duke, “or it will get worse.”

  The duke closed his mouth.

  Miss Swan watched him for a minute, and when no further objections were raised, she said, “Keep this amulet with you at all times. No harm shall befall you while you wear it, and make sure your husband does all that I have said.”

  Penelope pocketed the amulet which strongly resembled
the corpse of a lavender scented rat. “Thank you. Is there anything else I can do?”

  “Yes, cross my palm with coin.”

  Penelope put a coin in her hand.

  “Cross my palm with lots of coins.

  Penelope handed her a small jingling bag.

  “Thank you.” Miss Swan said, gathering up her supplies. She shoved the bleeding chicken head into a cloth bag along with the blessed rock and the rest of the paraphernalia.

  “Wait,” Penelope said. “Am I having a boy or a girl?”

  “The powers that be shall reveal in time.”

  “What does that mean?” Celine asked.

  Miss Swan gazed at her mysteriously. “Lord Elmer will see me out.”

  George nodded and whispered something in Miss Swan’s ear making her giggle.

  Celine froze, her breath stuck in her throat. All at once time seemed to slow down and Lord Elmer’s fingers moved as if wading through viscous air.

  Her eyes widened and her refined senses watched in horror as the scene unfolded before her.

  It seemed an age before his adventurous fingers reached Miss Swan’s round, firm bottom … and then he flicked it.

  Celine was certain that a bottom had been flicked today. And that she had seen it. Her heart sank. “Laced mutton,” she whispered, piqued.

  Miss Swan in turn sent George a long, heated look before exiting the room. He scampered after her.

  Celine fixed her eyes on the tablecloth, her insides in turmoil. She wondered how Miss Swan had achieved that last mysterious expression. She picked up a spoon and squinted at her reflection.

  “What are you doing?” Penelope asked, taking the lavender stuffed rat out to examine it. It had eyes.

  “Trying to look mysterious.”

  Penelope tilted her head to the side. She searched Celine’s face. “You look like you are about to cast up your accounts.” When Celine threw the spoon down, she continued. “Are you jealous of Miss Swan?”

  “Nothing of the sort,” she said shortly.

  “I saw you stick your tongue out at her back when Lord Elmer touched her elbow.”

  “I did not.”

  “You also called her a laced mutton. A refined lady using such words.” She shook her head and added slyly, “It shocked my bonnet.”

  “Miss Swan did not tell you if you were having a boy or a girl, and the duke will have to wear a petticoat, and you will have to carry around a dead rat,” Celine replied instead. “You have spent the whole morning being bamboozled.” She blew out the candles and tossed the incense sticks into the bowl of water.

  Penelope held out the stuffed rat towards her as a sort of peace offering. “Would you like to hold him?”

  Celine shook her head.

  Penelope continued, “I am thinking of giving him a name. What do you suggest?”

  Celine grinned.

  Chapter 20

  “You made the duchess name that dead stuffed rat … George?” Lord Elmer growled.

  “You brought Miss Swan,” Celine said slamming the bundle of poems down on the table. “Penny thought it was apt if we named it after you.”

  “Miss Elizabeth Swan happens to be a very fine young woman,” he began.

  “She is a fraud.”

  “Perhaps, but it was fun.”

  “The duke will have to wear a petticoat.”

  Lord Elmer grinned. “Never in my wildest dreams did I think that things would go so well.”

  “You really shouldn’t tease him so.”

  “I can’t help it. The man never smiles. And don’t open that yet,” Lord Elmer said, stopping her from untying the string around the bundle of poems. “I am tired of this library. We need a new place to scheme.”

  “Where?”

  “Under the stars,” he said pulling her along. “We are going to the rooftop of the Blackthorne Mansion. It is enchanting. I have gone and sat up there two nights in a row.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I am not going up on the roof.”

  “You are,” he said plucking the bundle out of her hand and moving towards the door.

  “I will be cold.”

  “I will give you my coat” he called. His long legs already had him at the entrance.

  “You are unbelievable,” she muttered racing after him.

  A few minutes later they were sitting under the stars and a big fat full moon.

  “Now, isn’t this nice?” he asked gazing up at the sky.

  Celine watched the candle flicker out for the fifth time. “It is too windy for a candle. How will we write?”

  He pulled out a bottle of brandy. “Would you like a drink?”

  She shook her head and repeated, “How will we write?”

  He took a gulp from the bottle. “Do we have to write?”

  “I suppose not,” she replied frowning. After a moment she said, “I am cold.”

  “You are wearing my coat.”

  “It is not helping,”

  “Take a sip of the brandy. It will warm you.”

  After a suspicious look at him, she took a cautious sip.

  “You trust me,” he said in a pleased voice.

  “We are friends are we not?” she replied, enjoying the tiny bit of warmth that raced through her.

  “I suppose we are.”

  She took another sip and then firmly put the bottle away.

  They sat in silence for a while. Soon the strong breeze wriggled under her hair pins and coaxed a few locks to misbehave. She slapped at her hair desperately trying to keep what she could under control. Her hair rebelled and won.

  “Lud,” she exclaimed. Why was everything becoming unmanageable these days?

  Lord Elmer offered her another sip of the brandy.

  Lord Elmer, she decided, was the crux of the problem. How he had managed to pull the earth from under feet, flip it around twice and then replace it with a bumpier version, she would never know.

  “Tell me something about your poet. About the romance between you.” Lord Elmer said pulling out a cigar.

  “What would you like to know?” she asked sniffing appreciatively. The scent of crushed stale roses, a hint of brandy and the sweet smell of expensive tobacco had filled the air.

  “What sort of a man is he?”

  “Well, he has a large body, but inside that he is a very tiny person. It is as if he doesn’t realise just how big he is.”

  He nodded understandingly. “What did you like the most about him?”

  “He was shy,” she said softly. “Insecure. He did not think he deserved a girl like me. His entire face would turn red every time he saw me.” She felt Lord Elmer smile in the darkness as she continued. “His favourite colour was blue. I tried to wear something blue every time I met him. He always noticed. It had become a game between us. I tried to add the lightest touch of blue to my attire and he would have to guess where it was.”

  “Where did you meet him?”

  “In the woods behind my house. He used to enjoy writing surrounded by nature. I would sneak out of the house and meet him. He would press a letter into my hand or leave a poem on the back doorstep early in the morning when the entire house was asleep.”

  “I hope we can find him for you,” he said taking a sip from the bottle.

  She said softly, “You have a good heart.”

  “I am helping you to allay some of my own guilt. My presence here endangers your entire family, for if the pirates discover my whereabouts …” He trailed off.

  “I never thought of that. Well then you are a scoundrel.”

  “Birds in their little nests agree,” he replied unhappily.

  “You are a scoundrel,” she said consolingly, “but a good scoundrel. A likeable one. A layered one.”

  “Layered?”

  “Yes, you have a lot of layers. On the very top you are nice, and at times I think that if anyone can catch sunlight in their fist and keep it, then it is you. Underneath that you are a touch … no, plenty mischievous. Then comes a layer of
injured innocence. But deep down at the very core you are either very good or pure evil. I haven’t figured out which one yet.”

  “You are not making any sense.”

  “I am trying to cheer you up. You sound blue,” she mused. “Why don’t you tell me one of your outlandish stories? It will make you feel better.”

  “No, we are here to discuss our next step.”

  “Next step?”

  “Sometimes,” he said closing his eyes, “I think that if a stranger observed us together, they would come to the conclusion that I love Nesbit and not you. I seem more passionate about finding him.”

  “Nesbit?”

  “Your poet.”

  “I don’t feel like discussing him tonight. Instead, tell me a story.”

  “You are acting a little strange, Amy. Are you well?” he said catching her chin and tilting it up to the moonlight.

  “More than well,” she hiccupped.

  “You, my dear, are drunk.” His eyes dropped to her lips. “Pity,” he whispered under his breath.

  Her eyes, too, dropped to his lips. He had a tempting mouth. The bottom lip was full, and she wanted to lean over and give it a small nibble. She suddenly raised her lashes and with her eyes wide announced, “I kissed Philbert. More than once.”

  Lord Elmer grabbed the bottle from her and shook it. It was empty. “I don’t think you want to tell me more.”

  She grabbed the bottle back and hugged it to her chest. “I kissed him and it was … nice.”

  “I see.”

  “Once he licked my cheek. I did not like it. What should I do if he licks it again?”

  “Punch him,” he advised as he wrestled the empty bottle out of her hand.

  “As you say,” she said and staggered to her feet. “I am warm now. You can take the coat.”

  “I think you should go to bed.”

  She yawned, “I will. I am sleepy.”

  “Good,” he said relieved.

  A minute later she still had not moved.

  “Come along now,” he coaxed tugging on her arm.

  “Fine,” she said again, but instead of moving she sat down on the ground.