Satyr’s Son: A Georgian Historical Romance (Roxton Family Saga Book 5)

by Brant, Lucinda

  “No, sir. To no one. Though I do not understand why you would not want the support of your family.”

  “Believe me, Miss Crisp,” he drawled. “I had enough support as a child to last me a dozen lifetimes.”

  She smiled in understanding.

  “Children like to be coddled. Men do not—That is,” she confided with a bashful smile, “not directly.”

  “Coddled, yes. Suffocated, no,” he quipped, and then her acute observation penetrated his consciousness and he looked at her keenly, a frown between his black brows. “How old did you say you were?”

  Her smile widened and she lifted her chin. There was a playful light in her blue eyes. “I did not say, sir.”

  “This unwillingness to tell me your age is tiresome,” he complained. “Though it is unnecessary for me to know your age to deduce you did not grow up here in Gerrard Street.”

  Her eyes went round with surprise.

  “That is true. I did not. From the age of nine I attended a boarding school for young ladies in Chelsea. But how did you know?”

  “A boarding school for young ladies in Chelsea?” he repeated with a detached interest that hid his surprise. “Of course you did,” he muttered.

  He did not like this revelation at all because it would’ve been much easier on his conscience to dismiss her had she not been educated and carefully nurtured in the way of girls who are expected to marry and spend their lives as wives and mothers in comfort, if not in wealth. But something told him as soon as he set eyes on her that she was no mere servant of the physician Warner. There was nothing servile or coquettish in the way she conducted herself. She had a confident air and a polite, if rather direct, approach. He doubted she knew how to flirt, and arrogantly he was glad of it. He did not like the idea of her flirting—with anyone.

  He wondered why she had been sent off to a boarding school at such a young age. He knew all about boarding school. He had hated every minute of his time at Eton. Not that he had let his feelings be known because it wasn’t manly to blubber at being away from his parents, and he wanted so much to be thought of as just one of the boys. His falling sickness precluded that, and forever set him apart. Yet it was only while he was at Eton that he’d considered his seizures a blessing. One too many attacks in a month, and his personal physician, who followed him everywhere, sent for his father. And M’sieur le Duc d’Roxton would arrive in state in his big black carriage with six fine horses to take him home. And all the boys and masters would be in awe of this ancient aristocrat who was king of his own dominion. And then one day his father told him he would not be returning to Eton. He and Jack would complete their education at home. It had been one of the happiest days of his life, and also one of the saddest. It was the day he had come upon his mother sobbing until she could not breathe, his father’s physicians gathered around her, delivering her the news that there was no hope; M’sieur le Duc, her husband and his father, was dying…

  “Sir? How did you know I did not grow up on Gerrard Street?” Lisa repeated, taking another step closer when he did not answer her immediately.

  “How…?” he asked, dragging his thoughts out of the past to focus on her, which was a much more pleasant and soothing experience than reliving the painful memories of his boyhood.

  She had a lovely smile and her deep blue eyes were bright and open. He doubted she had a deceitful bone in her body. A body that was too thin, with a barely-there bosom, but that did not detract from her beauty. Her pleasing oval face, slender limbs, and graceful neck, and the way she carried herself, were most attractive. And while she was not beautiful in a breathtaking sense, she was enough above the ordinary to be memorable. He wondered if she was too thin because she tended to the sick. Who could eat well, if at all, after spending the day amongst the poorest of poor wretches, with all their attendant ailments, diseases, and complaints. He was intrigued she had managed to remain healthy and so full of life, given her daily routine.

  “Tell me, Miss Crisp,” he demanded more harshly than he intended because he did not like the idea of such a bright young female wasting her days in a dispensary heady with miasma. “For how long have you been working in the dispensary?”

  It took her a moment to respond because she had been expecting an answer to her question about not growing up on Gerrard Street. And his sudden anger surprised her.

  “Two years, perhaps a little longer—”

  “Two years?” He was flabbergasted. When she nodded he asked, “And in those two years how often have you been struck down with an illness, or been infected by these people?”

  “Never. I’ve never—”

  “Never? Not a cold, or a fever, or the slightest chill ever?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What about smallpox, consumption, puerile fever, any contagion whatsoever?”

  Lisa shook her head. “No, sir. I’ve never been ill a day in my life.”

  It was Henri-Antoine’s turn to take a step closer, and he allowed his gaze to sweep over her with uncustomary openness. With her glowing unblemished skin, shiny hair, and white smile, he believed her to be the healthiest person he had ever had the privilege of meeting. Yet he was incredulous, because it was as if he could not quite believe he had come across such a rare find in this most unlikely of places.

  “Fascinating.”

  Lisa took a step away mistaking his wonder for skepticism. “It is the truth, sir. Dr Warner will attest to it. He says I am worthy of further study.”

  He nodded, and before he could stop himself muttered, “You are worthy indeed, Miss Crisp.”

  “I am?” She still wasn’t sure if she should be flattered or alarmed. And because he was regarding her in a manner she found unnerving, added to fill the silence, “Dr. Warner is never ill either. And he spends many more hours than I do, shut up with his patients, and in the garret where he has his dissecting room.”

  Mention of a dissecting room piqued his interest and brought him out of his abstraction.

  “There is a dissecting room upstairs?”

  “And an anatomy theater, and a preparation room, too.”

  “Dr. Warner is well equipped. Do your duties extend outside the dispensary to assist the physician in these areas as well?”

  Lisa smiled as if he had said something highly amusing. “Only the medical students and teaching staff assist Dr. Warner. And as you are well aware, they are all men.”

  “But you do go up there?”

  “To change out the scent fabrics and tussie mussies. Bring new candles and soap, and make certain the soiled garments are collected up for laundering. They are all part of my duties in the dispensary and upstairs as well.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Dear me, what a strong constitution you have, Miss Crisp. I’m sure the stench alone must be frightful, not to mention the sight of such grisly offerings being inspected, dissected, and injected by our medical marvels. Though you must sorely test their powers of concentration as you flit amongst the cadavers with your fragrance and your flowers.”

  Lisa’s back stiffened and she clasped her hands in front of her.

  “I assure you, sir, that I take my duties very seriously. Dr. Warner is a fine physician. He is also a brilliant teacher, and his research is second to none. I do not flit and I would never seek to distract—”

  He held up a gloved hand. “Miss Crisp, I do not doubt it. I was not casting aspersions on your dedication, or the good doctor’s expertise. I was merely—how did you put it?—funning with you.”

  “Oh? Oh! Yes, I see. So you were.” Her smile was shy, but her eyes held a twinkle of mischief. “A good first attempt, but you need to practice if you wish to make others smile.”

  Later he wasn’t sure what made him say it, the shy smile or the twinkle in her blue eyes, when he spoke his thoughts, “Making others smile does not interest me. Whereas, you do…”

  “I do?”

  “And in answer to your previous question,” he continued smoothly, waking from his trance, a glanc
e at the pearl face of his gold pocket watch, which he had taken from a waistcoat pocket to give him time to regain his equilibrium. He then met her gaze again with no idea of the hour or the minute. “I know you did not grow up here in Gerrard Street because you do not have the same cadence as your fellows. There is little, if any, dialect in your speech. It is a learned way of speaking. From your school days, perhaps? You do it very well, and most persons would not notice. I hear it because I have an excellent linguistic ear; comes from spending my boyhood lying on a sofa, listening.”

  “How intriguing. I am somewhat of a linguist myself. I learned Italian at school, and French, not English, was my first language when I was a small child, which may account for my learned way of speaking in English without any dialect. My family are French emigrés. Did you learn to be fluent in the French tongue while lying on a sofa?”

  She was merely responding to him by making polite conversation. That’s what he told himself. But when she mentioned her first language was French, his whole manner changed. He wondered if she had told him this as a veiled reference to the deeply personal incident that had occurred when she had tended to him at Westby’s residence. He hoped, but could not be certain, it was an innocent conversational remark with no further meaning. Either way, it was a timely reminder of why he had come to Warner’s Dispensary in the first place: Not to exchange pleasantries or to know more than was necessary about this girl, but to thank her for coming to his aid. And having done his duty, he would leave and never think about that embarrassing incident, or her, again.

  And so he ignored her question, though when he bowed to her and looked into her eyes, he could not ignore the sensation of tightness in his chest, as if his cravat was bound too tightly about his throat. He needed to end this interview and leave now, before he got caught up in something not of his own making, and which was taken wholly out of his control.

  “Thank you for coming to my aid,” he stated formally, and lifted his walking stick a fraction—signal of his readiness to depart, and which saw the two lads move to stand together by the entrance door. “That you were witness to the twisted tremors of my broken, ill-made self was an unfortunate circumstance which I—”

  “Please, sir, you need not apologize,” Lisa interrupted. “The falling sickness is not new to me, and if it will ease your mind, I have seen far worse suffering and disease here at the dispensary than perhaps you can possibly imagine.”

  “My dear girl, I was not about to apologize,” he retorted. “Had you not trespassed into Lord Westby’s residence and put yourself in harm’s way, you and your friend would not have had to deal with my-my—with what was, quite frankly, none of your business. What you were doing there and at that hour, I hate to hazard a guess. Westby’s servants mistook you for harlots. Ha! At least your interference in my collapse—”

  Lisa gasped. “Interference?”

  “—saved you from a state of affairs that was most certainly well beyond your purview of expertise.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir, but I do not understand. What did I say to anger you? What—”

  “Good day, Miss Crisp… Let me out of here!” he growled at his minders as he turned on a heel, the short skirts of his frock coat swishing about his thighs, the walking stick snatched up and the diamond-studded handle pointed at the door.

  Lisa went after him, but he was out the door, a servant before him, and one following up behind, and she stopped on the doorstep, a silent witness to his abrupt departure.

  He crossed the short distance to his waiting carriage. The liveried postilions were keeping the crowd well back, and his major domo was on the pavement by the fold-down steps waiting for him.

  “Not a word!”

  Michel Gallet inclined his head and silently followed his master up into the carriage.

  Lord Henri-Antoine leaned back against the padded headboard and closed his eyes. The feeling of disquiet and restlessness, the feeling that had left him anxious for no apparent reason since his seizure at Westby’s, the feeling he hoped would vanish once he had met and thanked Miss Lisa Crisp, had not gone away at all. If anything, that feeling was now ten times worse. And with his eyes closed, the same vision remained in his mind’s eye—that of a Botticelli beauty. Only now the beauty had a name.

  NINE

  HENRI-ANTOINE looked up from the page he was reading as a footman opened the door to the book room to admit Jack. His best friend came across the deep carpet to the fireplace and sprawled out in the chair opposite. He was frowning, and Jack rarely if ever frowned.

  “Coffee?” Henri-Antoine enquired mildly, resting the open book on his silken knee and putting his coffee cup on the side table. He leaned forward to raise the silver coffee urn from its warmer. “Or do you require something stronger…?” When Jack did not immediately respond, he gave a nod to the footman. “Brandy—”

  “No. No. It’s too early. Coffee will be welcome,” Jack replied and sat up. He raked the hair out of his eyes, but the frown lingered. “This setting-up-house business is complicated, isn’t it?”

  “If you want to do it well.”

  “There’s too much choice in-in—everything. Color of paint. What wood. Type of carpet. And woe betide if you pick a color for the walls that doesn’t complement the curtains. As for furniture coverings—Ugh. My head aches.”

  Henri-Antoine added a drop of milk and used the silver tongs to plop a small sugar lump into the coffee, precisely as Jack preferred it, gave the liquid a stir, then held out the porcelain cup on its saucer.

  “So you managed to sort out the problem of the wallpaper then?” he asked, and sat back with his coffee cup, the book closed and set aside. He watched Jack gulp the brew without really tasting it. “Decision pending…?”

  Jack finished the coffee without realizing he had drunk it, and holding the empty cup as if it were a tankard of ale sat forward, leaning on the padded side of the comfortable wingchair.

  “Decision pending? Ha! No decision at all!” Jack replied on a huff and let his gaze wander about the book room with a new-found appreciation for interior decoration, since he’d been tasked with decorating and furnishing the townhouse he would share with Teddy once they were married. “I wish I’d paid more attention when you were setting up house,” he added as his gaze lingered on the floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases.

  The volumes that filled the shelves were bound in soft leather of different colors: Black for English titles; blue for French literature; works by Italian authors were covered in yellow; classical Greek and Roman texts bound in green; and the red leather tomes were various texts on everything from the natural histories, to pharmacopeias, to medical tracts.

  And just like this room, every other room in this elegant and spacious townhouse had no expense spared by architect, interior designer, and furniture maker. Yet there was a tasteful and understated elegance to the opulence. And with an awakened understanding for the effort and difficulty in decorating and furnishing a house well, Jack saw his best friend’s efforts with fresh awareness. The overall effect in this Park Street townhouse was one of harmonious simplicity and comfortable living, and all could be credited to Henri-Antoine’s good taste and brilliance. He hoped his domestic efforts on his and Teddy’s behalf would be half as successful.

  “You have an expert eye for color and detail, Harry,” Jack said on a sigh of admiration. “The upholstery on the sofas and chairs. The curtains with their tiebacks. The carpets covering the parquetry. Together they work as a whole. You’ve thought of everything haven’t you? I’ll wager you left nothing to chance and chose the paint color applied to the boiseries in your butler’s pantry, and in the housekeeper’s room, too.”

  “Thank you for the former. As for the latter, I must disappoint you. I gave my upper servants permission to choose the paint color for the wainscoting in their particular rooms. Caldwell is partial to puce. Mrs. Quigley is most happy in lilac. Not colors I would recommend you use anywhere in your house. But a happy butler and a contented
housekeeper make for a harmonious household. I advise you do the same, or have Teddy do so.”

  Jack had a sudden thought and looked at his best friend with mild panic mixed with a dose of hopefulness.

  “Perhaps you could come round to Mount Street and give me your expert opinion—on the wallpaper for the breakfast parlor, and for Teddy’s sitting room. And then there’s the curtains for her bedchamber—”

  “Separate beds, Jack?” Henri-Antoine enquired and then instantly recanted. “Forgive me, dear fellow. Forget I said—”

  “It’s not what I want. And I hope it’s not what she wants either. But it would be wrong of me to presume, wouldn’t it?” Jack replied truthfully. “It’s for her to decide. It’s the gentlemanly thing to do.”

  “So it is,” Henri-Antoine replied, hoping he sounded convincing.

  If he were marrying the woman he loved, there would be no question of separate beds—ever. If he got kicked out of the marital bed, then serve him to rights, and a sleepless night on the chaise longue in his dressing room would surely be punishment enough for his infraction. His parents had never spent a night apart, least of all slept in separate beds, and it wasn’t as if they weren’t spoiled for choice. Treat had twenty-five guest bedchambers, not counting those for the immediate family. One of his earliest memories was being brought to his parents’ apartment by his nurse, climbing the bed steps up onto the mattress all on his own—though he was sure his nurse was at his back—to his mother’s applause, and then his father scooping him up and holding him high above his head, which always made him giggle. He would then snuggle in between them amongst the pillows while they had their morning hot chocolate, and he sipped the same from the spout of a monogrammed, two-handled silver mug. He must have been around three years old…

  “What do you say? Harry?” Jack asked. “About coming round to Mount Street with me…?”

  “Mount Street…?” Henri-Antoine repeated, giving himself a mental shake to clear his mind of childhood remembrances. It had been a very long time since he’d recalled sipping hot chocolate in his parents’ bed. What had elicited that memory? Perhaps all this sentimentality was the fault of Jack’s impending nuptials? “Teddy not taking an interest in furnishing her new home?”