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

by Brant, Lucinda

  Her blunt summation made him sound absurd, and it was absurd, but he gave himself permission to allow bitterness to feed his demon. He inclined his head in agreement and then added to the absurdity by saying with a sniff of disdain,

  “No doubt to someone like you my title, my pedigree, and my wealth were like shiny objects dangled before a cat: Irresistible, and for the capturing.”

  “Someone like me…? Oh! You mean as an orphaned pauper living on the charity of her relations. As for irresistible and for the capturing…” She blushed scarlet, incensed by his outrageous assertion. “I do not know what saddens me more: That you think me so shallow of character that I agreed to be your mistress because I am dazzled by your wealth and privilege, or that you are so shallow of character that you must needs bolster your conceit by trumpeting your pedigree as son of a duke. As for your wealth—It is, quite frankly, unfathomable to me. I have all of fifteen shillings to my name, and that was given to me, most generously, by Dr. Warner. So in truth I do not have even one penny that is mine.”

  He contradicted himself by saying coldly, “When we first met I did not fling, or as you put it trumpet, my name or my consequence. In fact, you were clueless as to my identity.”

  “When we first met,” she reminded him gently, “you were in no position to fling anything at me.”

  It was his turn to blush scarlet. She was right. Their first encounter had not been at Warner’s Dispensary when she had refused to go out to his carriage, it was at Westby’s townhouse when he was in the throes of a full-blown seizure. She deserved his thanks and his gratitude for taking care of him, but in his present destructive state of mind, and with the sun blazing in his eyes and his throat becoming drier by the minute, he allowed himself to hurtle back to a time before his father’s death, when he was a sullen, petulant boy, full of resentment and self-consequence, who privately, desperately, wanted to be like every other boy, but most of all like his best friend Jack, and knew with bitter certainty he never would be.

  “Ah! Here it is! Voiced at last! I wondered when Miss Crisp, the dispensary assistant who has never been ill a day in her life, would find the moment to remind His Lordship that though he is a duke’s son and wealthy beyond her comprehension, he is less than whole, and he certainly is not wholesome. He has frequent moments of monstrosity and madness which he cannot control, and never will be able to control, and he will spend the rest of his days a slave to his affliction. And were it not for his illustrious relations, he would have been committed and now be chained up with the lunatics in Bedlam, and there left to rot, an exhibit for curious paying visitors. Thank you, Miss Crisp. Thank you so much for your timely reminder. It can serve as your exit clause. You can sigh with relief knowing you have accepted the better offer. Your life with Teddy and Jack will be vastly different to the one I would have subjected you to, and you may live it without—”

  “You are being self-pitying for its own sake, and I won’t let you degrade yourself or me with such nonsense!”

  Her sagacity made him want to laugh at his own irrationality, and her tears made him wretched. He wanted to fall to his knees and weep at her feet and beg forgiveness for such a ludicrous display of infantile behavior. He had no idea what had come over him to allow himself to display such raw emotion. His conduct was not only childish and disgraceful, it was unforgiveable. And here she was, behaving as she always did, with the utmost decorum and majesty. Perhaps he did belong in Bedlam. At the very least, locked away from good society, and most of all, far, far away from her. He didn’t deserve her, and she certainly deserved better than him. And with his head pounding and his eyes hurting, and welling with panic at that feeling that at any moment he was about to spiral out of control, he convinced himself he had lost her forever, and set about satisfying his self-destruction.

  “You should be flattered to have received two offers in two days. I have never offered any female what I offered you, and Teddy most certainly would never offer any female but you with what she and Jack are willing to provide.”

  “You cannot compare the two.”

  His gaze swept over her and fixed on the little lace edge of her chemise just peeking above the top of her low-cut bodice, inviting the eye to caress her small perfect breasts. He sneered and looked up into her eyes with undisguised lust.

  “You’re right. You wouldn’t have to work on your back for Teddy.”

  His vulgar inference fell flat. “Work on my-my—back…?”

  Oh God. How had he descended into such crudity, and with her? He would never have been that coarse with a whore. He was a monster. He certainly was no gentleman. He felt ill and pitiful and utterly helpless. He sensed the latter feeling had less to do with her and everything to do with his physical deterioration. And with this awareness he did what his father had always told him to do when in the public gaze: Remain calm. Signal for help the way he had been shown. Breathe. Soon he would be in a safe place, out from under prying eyes, and out of harm’s way.

  From the corner of an eye he saw they had company, and his first thought was that it was the lads come to take him away. But he had yet to signal them. And then his confrontation with Lisa was brought to an abrupt halt. Suddenly, and without warning, Jack marched up to them. He grabbed Henri-Antoine by the collar and shoved him backwards, taking him as far from Lisa as he could manage without them both tripping and falling to the ground. She followed them, and tried to offer an explanation, but Jack was in no mood to listen, even to her.

  “That was a piece of filth I never thought I’d hear from the mouth of a gentleman,” Jack snarled in Henri-Antoine’s ear. “Lord! You’ve outdone yourself this time, Harry! You’ve descended into the cesspit!”

  THE DUKE’S Eleven had taken to the field. The batsmen for the Gentleman’s Eleven, Bully and Jamie, were at the crease swinging their bats, ready to play. Mr. Frew, officiating umpire, was at the bowler’s end, behind the wicket. Marc Gallet had the ball, ready to bowl. It only remained to have Lord Henri-Antoine and Miss Crisp removed from a position where they could be hit with the ball, so play could commence. Jack elected to break up their heated argument. He had gone on ahead of the rest of the players to alert them that they were not only providing fodder for the gossips and causing the family concern, but there was a cricket match to get underway.

  He walked up to the couple in time to hear the end of Henri-Antoine’s heated diatribe, followed by Miss Crisp’s measured reply. He had then stepped forward to make his presence known when he heard something out of his best friend’s mouth he never thought he would ever hear a gentleman say to any female, least of all to Teddy’s best friend. Lisa Crisp might not have been born of noble parents, she may not have been a gentleman’s daughter or even the daughter of a squire for that matter, but as far as he was concerned she conducted herself in every way as if she were in truth a lady, and better than some females who had been born to the title.

  That the couple was in the midst of what was clearly a lover’s tiff, opened wide his eyes, and he was prepared to give them some latitude, and thus had waited a few moments until there was a break in their exchange. But Henri-Antoine’s tasteless insinuation prompted him into action, and if he wasn’t already angry enough to think Miss Crisp had been subjected to baseless gossip by an argument conducted in full public view, her tear-stained face and evident distress had his blood at boiling.

  So what had been a heated argument between a couple in the middle of a field, had now inflated into an enraged altercation between two best friends, with Miss Crisp helplessly watching on, mortified to be the subject of their furious disagreement. And it happened there, on the field, amidst the cricket game, with family and friends, servants and tenants, leaving the comfort and shade of their marquees to swarm as one along the edge of the field toward Jack and Henri-Antoine and Lisa Crisp, to have a better view and hopefully hear what all the fuss was about. The only ones to miss out on this impromptu diversion were the children, the Duchess of Roxton having the presence of mi
nd to order their nurses and maids to round up any little person twelve years and younger and herd them indoors for ice cream and cake.

  HENRI-ANTOINE twisted out of Jack’s hold and pushed him off.

  “If you hadn’t stuck your nose in where it’s not wanted you’d have been spared my cesspit tongue! Go away, Jack,” Henri-Antoine complained. “I don’t want you here. This is—was—between Miss Crisp and me, and none of your concern, so off you trot—”

  “Be damned it’s none of my concern!” Jack huffed. He went right up to Henri-Antoine and said in a low voice in the hopes Lisa would not overhear him, “You’d best tell me your intentions toward Miss Crisp.”

  “Intentions?” Henri-Antoine shrugged. “I have none.”

  “Good. Then stay away from her.”

  In an about-face, Henri-Antoine stared at Jack with astonishment.

  “You are telling me to stay away from her?”

  “You’re damned right I am!”

  Henri-Antoine glanced at Lisa, who stood some feet away, hugging her lithe frame in distress, and in a blinding moment of clarity, he saw in Jack the means to bring about the annhiliation of his good character so all ties would be severed with Miss Lisa Crisp. He goaded Jack in an undervoice dripping with arrogance, “It’s a bit late in the day to be chivalrous where she’s concerned. She’s agreed to become my mistress. I’m to set her up in my house in Bath. Interesting times, ahead, eh, Jack.”

  “Be damned you will!”

  Henri-Antoine pulled a face and drawled, “Yes, I probably will be. But until then, I’ll have a nice girl to come home to when I’m in the country.”

  “I won’t let you do it!”

  “What? Why? Wake up, Jack! She’s a penniless orphan whose family were in service to mine. It’s more than most servants can expect out of life. Don’t worry. I’ll look after her. Clothes. Fripperies. The occasional trip to town.” He smirked. “As long as she does as she’s told and continues to please me—”

  “You’re a self-centered muckworm. You know that?”

  “Yes. I am. And you’ve always known it. So?”

  “She’s Teddy’s best friend, for God’s sake!”

  “You are marrying Teddy. I am making Teddy’s best friend my mistress. They are mutually exclusive propositions. If Teddy wants to write to her, I’ll not object.”

  “I will!”

  “And Teddy will do as you say? Good luck with that!”

  When Henri-Antoine turned his back and waved a hand, as if in dismissal, Jack took two strides, grabbed onto his shirt and spun him about. And before Henri-Antoine could pull out of his grasp, he snatched up a handful of his shirt front and jerked him up against his chest. The two men were nose-to-nose and eye-to-eye.

  Jack’s voice was low and menacing and flat. “If you think for one moment I will allow that girl into your bed all to satisfy your selfish carnal wants, you do have ballocks for brains.”

  “It’s not your decision, is it?”

  “This isn’t the Middle Ages. Just because she’s poor and has no family, and her antecedents were vassals of the Dukes of Roxton, you look upon her as fit only to serve as your concubine? Shame on you! Shame. On. You.”

  “Have you done with the morality tale?” Henri-Antoine drawled, and for good measure rolled his eyes and sighed. He pretended an interest in his attire, and whined, “You’ve ruined the fibres of this shirt, and perhaps crushed the shirt buckle, which was a gift from the management of Burke’s in appreciation of my assiduous patronage.”

  Jack’s lip curled with repugnance. “You think it something to boast about, being the saytr’s son?! Well I’m done with you. And I don’t know why we’re arguing. The decision’s been made. She’s coming to live with Teddy and me. And there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it. And unless you treat her with respect, and accept that she is part of my family, you won’t be welcome at Abbeywood. Ever.”

  And when Jack let him go with a contemptuous shove and opened wide his hand as if he no longer wanted the touch of him, Henri-Antoine smiled to himself and delivered the final verbal sword thrust to his own demise.

  “Well. Well. Jack Cavendish. You cunning fox! I doff my hat and bow most humbly to your libidinous dexterity. Not one, but two virgins to warm you up at night. Who’s the satyr—”

  Jack planted his fist into his best friend’s face.

  TWENTY-ONE

  WITH THE BEST friends throwing punches and grappling with one another, the cricket match was abandoned. Players rushed over to watch the spectacle. They were soon joined by guests and family who swarmed across the field. And while some of the ladies fell back so they would not have to witness the bestial behavior of two young men having a set-to, the gentlemen and boys flocked to join the cricket players who had formed a tight circle around the fight, shouting encouragement with every swing, thwack, and thump.

  Forgotten on the sidelines was a horrified Lisa, who quickly averted her gaze the instant Jack landed the first sickening blow and blood began pouring from Henri-Antoine’s nose.

  The fight was finally broken up by Lord Strathsay, the Duke of Roxton, and Christopher Bryce. Jack and Henri-Antoine were pulled off one another and held back on opposite sides of the circle, heaving in great breaths, Jack still combative, Henri-Antoine with head down and bleeding into the grass. The Duke instructed the disappointed cricketers, spectators, and relieved family members, to return to the marquees where afternoon tea was to be served before changing for dinner and an evening of music. And with the aid of his army of servants dispersing the crowd, as well as providing a barrier between onlookers and boxers, soon the guests and cricketers and family members drifted back across the field, chatter all about the astonishing events leading up to and including the set-to between the groom and his best man. Everyone wondered what this would mean for the upcoming wedding.

  When Teddy arrived, she took one look at Jack’s bloodied shirt front and the split to his lip, and satisfied he was not seriously hurt, turned away in disgust to gather a distraught Lisa to her. From the comfort of Teddy’s embrace, Lisa dared to glance over at Henri-Antoine. His shirt front was also spattered with blood, and blood glistened about his nostrils and mouth, which was strangely blue, and there was a gash to his top lip that looked to be swelling before her eyes.

  Not one to faint at the sight of blood or injury or disease, and thought good in a crisis at Warner’s Dispensary, an overwrought Lisa was oddly sensitive to seeing Henri-Antoine’s blood spilt. She took one look at his busted lip and fainted, slipping through Teddy’s arms to collapse in the grass.

  Lord Strathsay, who was helping the Duke keep Henri-Antoine propped up, immediately crossed to assist Teddy with Lisa. Gathering the girl into his arms, and with his niece at his side, he strode off to the marquees, seeking shade and refreshment, and where he hoped to find his Countess, who was also known to be good in a crisis.

  And while Lisa’s faint caused the family alarm, it was a needed diversion for those guests still milling about because they turned their backs on Henri-Antoine to watch the girl be taken away by the Earl, and thus were unaware of His Lordship’s collapse. Henri-Antoine had turned to his distressed mother, to assure her there was nothing to worry about, he was not greatly hurt. But the Duchess did not believe him. She had arrived in a flurry of silken petticoats and greatly agitated, which meant she was talking in a rush of French no one but her sons could possibly understand. She demanded both boys be taken up to the big house immediately to be examined by Roxton’s personal physician. Henri-Antoine was protesting this was unnecessary when his body stiffened, he blacked out, and fell forward.

  The Duke caught him before he fell flat on his face, and laid him in the grass at their mother’s feet, who knelt beside him, a cool hand to his brow. But while the Duke was able to stop his brother’s fall, there was nothing he could do but watch on helplessly as Henri-Antoine’s entire body convulsed and writhed before them. And when Antonia briefly looked up at her eldest son, her tears
of anguish brought tears to his own eyes.

  It was the first bout of falling sickness mother and son had witnessed in over a decade. And Antonia thought herself prepared for such an eventuality. After all, she was aware that her younger son still suffered from infrequent bouts of his illness, though she allowed him the dignity of pretending ignorance. Discreet enquiries and regular secret reports from loyal servants kept her informed. What mother would not keep a close eye on all her children, but most particularly on a son whom she had nursed from birth until his thirteenth year through so many attacks that if he went a week without one, they began entertaining fanciful notions he was cured. But he wasn’t cured, and he never would be. And watching him as a twenty-five-year-old man surrender to such an uncontrollable illness, she realized she had forgotten just how frightening and horrid such an all-consuming attack was on the body and mind of the sufferer, and what a torment it was for his loved ones who could do nothing but be mere spectators to his suffering and indignity.

  And while the Duke of Roxton conferred with the Gallet brothers on what was to be done, not only with his brother but with his nephew, the Duke of Kinross finally found his wife. Pushing through the small group of dedicated servants he joined her on the grass, and took her in his arms, providing her with some comfort while they kept vigil over her tormented son.

  Matters progressed swiftly when four of the eight lads employed to shadow their master arrived to look after him. Henri-Antoine’s valet Kyte and his major domo Michel Gallet took matters in hand, and everyone from the Duke of Roxton to the Duke and Duchess of Kinross, to the footmen currently shielding His Lordship from prying eyes, were required to bow to their expertise and their master’s wishes. So the family, however reluctantly, soon found themselves following the guests to return to the marquees, leaving Henri-Antoine to the care of his minders.

  When Jack tried to go to Henri-Antoine, Kyte and Michel Gallet warned him off, and it was only after Christopher Bryce took him in hand, that he finally complied. And when he tried to offer his apologies to his Uncle Roxton and to Cousin Duchess, they were in an unforgiving mood. The Duke told him to go clean himself up; he was a disgrace; there would be plenty of time for him to explain himself later that evening in the quiet of the Duke’s library.