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

by Brant, Lucinda

  He held out the key. “Would you do the honors?”

  Lisa nodded, and was up on her knees to turn the small but surprisingly heavy brass key in the lock. And as he folded back the lid until it lay flat on its polished brass hinges, she leaned ever forward, mouth at half-cock in amazement that what was revealed inside the writing box was even more luxurious than its outer casing. With the two halves now lying flat, the slope to the writing surface was evident. This was covered in a bright red leather bordered by a tooled frame stamped in gold. Here was the place to lay each sheet of paper and write in comfort, the red leather surface set within a framework of ebony facings inlaid with mother-of-pearl filigree work. At one end was a long segmented storage compartment, one for quills, another for nibs and associated paraphernalia, and at either end a place for an inkwell. And there were two, of cut glass with silver stoppers.

  Henri-Antoine removed one from its place to show Lisa how the mechanism worked in the silver lid to stop the ink from leaking, and how to unscrew it. He then gave it to her to try, which she did without any difficulty. But when he put out his hand to take the inkwell to put it back she hesitated, and looked up at him wonderingly. Her voice was barely above a whisper.

  “You’ve had the lids engraved with my initials.”

  “Yes. Did you have someone else in mind…?”

  She shook her head, too overcome to say more, and pushed the little bottle back into his hand.

  Next he tugged gently on a small red leather tab in the center top edge of the writing surface and the entire half of the box lifted like a second lid to reveal a compartment underneath.

  “A place to store your paper,” he told her. “But wait! Let me astound you further—”

  “Can you? I am more than a little tongue-tied as it is.”

  “I can tell…” he quipped.

  He put this lid back into position and pulled on a second tab at the end in front of the quill compartment and inkwells, and lifted back the writing surface as he had done before. This half also revealed a compartment. And he beckoned Lisa closer and to pay attention to what he was doing. He ran his fingers along the rosewood panel below the compartment, and just as Lisa blinked, the panel came away in Henri-Antoine’s fingers. Lisa took a breath, surprised, and if it were possible, her eyes grew rounder when he removed the panel entirely and showed her the brass spring latch that held this panel in place. When pressure was applied to a particular spot, the catch released and the panel came away freely. She was about to ask why, when, having removed the panel, all was revealed.

  “Three secret drawers with bone handle pulls, neatly concealed behind the wood panel. Tiny, but large enough to hold little notes, or keepsakes. And only you know they are there—”

  “And you,” she said, smiling up at him. She reached in and slid open one of the drawers, and then tried the next, and finally she slid open the third. “Oh,” she said, peering into each drawer with a feigned sigh of disappointment. “I thought… I thought perhaps you might have left me a note—”

  “A note? Did you? Is this writing box not enough—Oh! Ah! I see,” he muttered, realizing too late when she clapped a hand to her mouth to hide her smile that she was teasing him. He made a quick recover, however, saying on a drawl, his tone at odds with the mirth in his dark eyes, “If I’d not had those silver lids engraved, you ungrateful wretch, I’d think about returning this—”

  “Oh no you don’t!” she said fiercely, hands splayed covetously across the leather writing surface. But then she had a sudden thought and sat back on her haunches with her chin up, to say loftily, “By all means, sir. Take it. Though I warn you that in doing so you will lose any advantage you had, and you will no longer feel better about yourself. And—and,” she stressed when he went to speak, continuing when he pressed his lips together, though it was obvious he was trying to suppress a grin, “I can draw but one conclusion from such petty retribution. That despite assurances to the contrary, you are as petulant and as indulged as you ever were as a boy. I am certain that is not how you wish to present yourself to me, is it?”

  He shook his head obediently. Then in an about-face he nodded, which had her gasping and again sitting up, balancing on her knees, feigning affront. But her display fell flat when she became unbalanced and fell forward, only for him to catch her by the upper arms. And once he had her he did not instantly let her go, though he kept her at arm’s length. He stared into her flushed face, all humor extinguished.

  “It is only fair I warn you, Miss Crisp,” he said quietly. “Petulance and acting the pampered brat remain two of my better qualities.”

  She held his gaze. “I do not believe you.”

  He let her go and sat back, eyes anywhere but on her. She stayed silent and still, the feeling of his fingers about her arms lingering longer than was pleasant. And then she rallied, suddenly aware of the passage of time. They had been in the drawing room alone together for so long she was certain the trustees had had enough time to not only have a comprehensive tour of the dispensary, but must have ascended to inspect the anatomy theater and the preparation rooms. And he, whoever he was, because he had yet to confide in her his name, and she had never asked, was surely conspicuous by his absence.

  The writing box was still open and pulled apart, and when she went to put it back together, he came to life and offered to help. His manner and tone gave nothing away of his thoughts. She asked to be shown how to work the spring-loaded catch so she would be able to remove the panel that concealed the secret drawers by herself. He obliged and had her practice several times until she was proficient. This interval gave them both the time and opportunity to return to the easy manner they found they enjoyed in each other’s company. So much so that, when the door to the drawing room opened quietly to admit a trustee, Henri-Antoine and Lisa were so absorbed in the writing box and each other that they were oblivious to all else.

  Lisa was up on her knees, head over the box, practicing one last time to release the hidden spring-loaded catch, while Henri-Antoine was so close he could count every dark lash framing her blue eyes. And while he was acutely aware of her he was very sure she remained oblivious to him. Her concentration was on being able to use the catch to reveal the hidden drawers, and then be able to successfully replace the panel. He quickly returned his thoughts to the task at hand and soon they had their heads together peering into the writing box’s every nook and cranny, while he found himself giving her an account of his visit to Toulmin and Gale on New Bond Street, and how he had returned later that same night to retrieve the box once the silver lids of the inkwells had been engraved, the proprietor only too willing to keep his premises open well into the small hours to make certain the writing box was prepared to his client’s satisfaction.

  It was no surprise then that when the couple were addressed, they both jumped with surprise and turned as one to the doorway.

  “APOLOGIES FOR THE interruption, but we’re wanted upstairs,” Jack said chattily to Henri-Antoine.

  He had waited until his best friend had finished recounting his visit to Toulmin and Gale, which also gave him the leisure to observe the girl kneeling on the carpet at Henri-Antoine’s feet. He would not have recognized her from their brief meeting in the passageway at Westby’s townhouse. He had been too distracted by Henri-Antoine’s diminished health to notice much about her, except that she was young and pretty and far too self-possessed for a girl dealing with such a situation. Such self-possession reminded him of his Aunt Deb, and he never thought he would ever know another woman quite like the Duchess of Roxton.

  In the light of day, with her cheeks delicately tinged with color, and her eyes bright, dressed in a simple floral cotton gown that was molded to her long slim arms and trim figure, this girl was even prettier than he had first thought. And then she smiled at him in recognition, and her lovely smile lit up her features. He mentally corrected himself: She wasn’t pretty, she was beautiful, as beautiful and as sunny as a spring day.

  “Hell
o,” she said, scrambling to her feet, allowing Henri-Antoine to help her up. She brushed down the skirts of her gown, looked about for her mules, slipped them on her stockinged feet and came across the room to drop a simple curtsy in greeting. “Today is full of surprises. Are you a trustee, too?”

  Jack made her a bow, and could not help smiling. “I am. I’m only sorry that under the terms of our visit I cannot properly introduce myself, Miss—Miss—?”

  “Miss Crisp. No matter. Your friend Harry hasn’t introduced himself either—”

  “What the devil—!” Henri-Antoine exploded, unable to contain his incredulity. He was utterly flummoxed. Jack’s idiotic grin did not help his mood. He strode over to join them, and ignoring Jack, demanded of Lisa, “For how long have you known—”

  “—your name? Since my visit to Lord Westby’s residence. Jack—” She looked at Jack. “That is your name, is it not, sir?” When he nodded, she continued. “Jack called you Harry that night, and so I presumed that to be your name.”

  For reasons he could not quite fathom he was not pleased to hear his name and Jack’s tripping off her tongue with such familiarity. It was one thing to be at his ease with her when they were private—though thinking about this he was made uncomfortable by his social lapse—and he was annoyed with Jack for the interruption, and with her for compromising his judgment. And so he tried to restore order—the way his life ought to be conducted—and failed miserably.

  “That is not my name,” he enunciated coldly. “That is what he calls me. And Jack is not his name. That is what I call him. So remove your self-satisfied smile and no, you may not address us on such familiar terms—”

  “Now hold on, Harry,” Jack said, rushing to the girl’s defense. “Jack is what everyone calls me. And I’m not the only one who calls you Harry. Most of the family does, except your mother, and—”

  “Keep out of this!” Henri-Antoine snapped, not taking his gaze from Lisa.

  Jack threw up his hands and took two steps back. But he needn’t have bothered to come to Lisa’s defense because she was not upset in the least. In fact, if he had felt himself an intruder upon entering the room, he most certainly knew he was one watching these two verbally spar. But while she was enjoying every minute, Henri-Antoine was becoming increasingly uncomfortable as those seconds ticked by. If someone had recounted this scene to him, he would not have believed it possible, not of Henri-Antoine, whom he had always assumed he knew better than anyone—apparently not.

  “You’re irritated because you wanted to tell me your name yourself, and now you cannot,” Lisa replied to Henri-Antoine. “Though why you wish to keep your name a secret… And you cannot use the Fournier Foundation rules as an excuse. This is your second visit. And I was good enough to tell you my name on your first visit—”

  “But not your age. You still haven’t told me your age. Nor do I see that there is anything in that to make you smile,” he grumbled. “I am being perfectly serious.”

  Lisa took a step closer so Jack would not overhear her. “Yes, I see that you are. And employing two of your better qualities to try and make me do your bidding will not work. I will not be coerced by such underhanded means.”

  Despite his best intentions to remain grave he was quickly realizing he could not conjure any defense against her.

  “You, Miss Crisp, are a shameless baggage,” he drawled softly, looking down into her upturned smiling face. “Nor can you coerce me, with your sweetness and light. I have been burned once too often, and I am immune to such feminine wiles.”

  Lisa blinked at him. “I am not entirely certain I understand your meaning, sir.”

  He believed her. And he was very likely to be burned by her if he remained in the orbit of her flame for much longer. He so wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her… That thought snapped him out of his reverie. And although he came to a sense of his surroundings and occasion, he was left feeling slightly inebriated. He wondered if he were experiencing the onset of an impending seizure, he was so whey-brained and disorientated. But this sensation was different from anything he had ever felt before, and that disturbed him most of all. So much so that he turned away and went over to the window, needing space and time to help him determine if he needed to excuse himself and send for the lads.

  The drawing room door opened then to admit Minette Walker, and with her was Michel Gallet. She was fluttering her fan and saying something over her shoulder in response to the major domo. But when she turned into the room and was confronted with her cousin and two gentlemen, her smile fell away. Her face flooded with color and her mouth set in a prim line. She looked Lisa over, shot a glance at Jack, then one at Henri-Antoine, then fixed on the sofa and a pretty, filigree-worked wooden box sitting on a cloth and a length of black ribbon.

  “How surprising to find you entertaining our guests in my absence, Lisa,” Minette Walker said with a tight smile. “You may return to your room, where you were told to remain, and finish packing for your journey. And do make certain you remove that gown. You do not want it ruined before you have even arrived at your destination. The cotton is fragile, thin at best, given it has been worn many times before by Henriette. You could very well have put holes in the fabric already.”

  Lisa bobbed a curtsy, embarrassed to be caught out by her cousin, though she had done nothing wrong, and mortified to have the secondhand nature of her gown discussed openly, and before a gentleman who was always dressed with all the sartorial elegance of one attending a ball. Still, anything she said would sound petty, and it was her cousin’s home and she a member of her household through the Warners’ good graces. So she remained silent and went to collect her writing box off the sofa.

  “Leave it. I’m certain it can’t be yours—”

  “Forgive the interruption, Madam,” Henri-Antoine said with icy politeness. He wasn’t sure what made his blood boil more: The condescending tone in which this woman spoke to a girl who lived under her roof, who was clearly not a servant, or watching the light go out of Lisa’s eyes as she was being lectured to. “The writing box does indeed belong to Miss Crisp. No doubt she will put it to good use in her duties as amanuensis—”

  Minette Walker was so surprised she forgot her manners and scoffed, “I hardly think writing letters for the poor requires such an expensive and ornamented writing equipage. And I am certain you will excuse me when I point out that, as Lisa is not of age, it is not her place to accept gifts from persons unknown to her guardian.”

  Henri-Antoine bowed his head with extreme politeness and smiled thinly. Jack did not like that smile at all, and he waited for his best friend to go in for the attack. And if he didn’t he was certainly willing to do so to put this creature in her place.

  “I agree—” Henri-Antoine began, and was rudely cut off.

  “There, Lisa. Now run along.”

  “I agree that you cannot have thought through your response,” Henri-Antoine stated, completing his sentence. “Nor do I excuse you for pointing out the obvious, or for making the inference there was anything improper in the gift-giving.” And while Minette Walker was opening and closing her mouth to try and find the words to reply to such a set-down, he turned to Lisa and said smoothly, “And when you have put away your writing box, Miss Crisp, return here to join us in the dining room. The trustees may have questions regarding your duties in the dispensary.”

  Lisa stopped in front of him, the writing box hastily wrapped up and clutched to her chest.

  “I am already in more strife than I can easily explain away in coming here to the drawing room,” she whispered.

  “The same strife you would’ve been in had you come out to my carriage when I called upon you that first time?”

  Lisa nodded. “And you will only compound that by having me attend a dinner party to which I am not invited.”

  “I am invoking my right of request as a trustee. And if the good doctor and his dragon lady wife want the foundation to fund his enterprise, then they will not object to yo
ur presence at dinner.”

  Lisa stood her ground.

  “Sir, this is one battle from which I ask you to retreat. Do not make me attend. There will be—consequences… And tomorrow I embark on my journey, which at least will give my cousin the time to forgive, if not forget, my infraction.”

  Henri-Antoine looked into her eyes. She did not blink or look away. “If that is your wish.”

  “It is.”

  “Very well. Then I will forgo your company… Are you away long?”

  “A fortnight.”

  “Will it be a pleasant fortnight?”

  Lisa’s smile returned. “It will. I’m attending a friend’s wedding.”

  “How coincidental. So am I.” He jerked his head in Jack’s direction. “He’s getting leg-shackled.”

  Lisa turned to look at Jack, and then she looked back at Henri-Antoine with wide eyes and lips slightly parted, as if she’d had a sudden thought that was too good to be true. Henri-Antoine’s facial tick surfaced watching her. They looked at each other and Lisa knew then that he, too, was having the same thought. Voicing it was unnecessary. The smile in their eyes was enough to communicate such an outlandish thought: Wouldn’t it be the most wonderful coincidence imaginable if they happened to be attending the same wedding!

  Little could they have known then that their wish was about to be fulfilled, bringing with it its own joys and tribulations that neither could have anticipated, but which would ultimately change their lives forever.

  TWELVE

  IT WAS STILL dark when Lisa and Becky were woken to ready themselves to be taken to the Bell Savage Inn at Ludgate Hill, where they would board the Southampton stagecoach for the journey into Hampshire. A hackney was waiting them in the street, and their luggage was already secured. So they quickly splashed cold water on their faces, tidied their hair and dressed. Capes, bonnets, and gloves on, they went downstairs and scrambled up into the hackney, only to find themselves joined by Dr. Warner, who was waiting for them, and who gave the order to the jarvie to be off.