Chapter 17
CHAPTER 17
“ P lease don’t do it, Mr Whitby. Please. I beg of you.”
Lucius was astonished to hear a sob in his valet’s voice. He forced himself not to say the words he really would have liked to say – all of which were far too rude for Clarkson’s delicate ears – and turned back towards the mirror. “What is it now, Clarkson? I really don’t have time to starch my collar or straighten my shirt or whatever – Oh, don’t look at me like that! I’m not doing it to upset you, man. I simply have too much on my mind to bother with looking my best.”
“An elegant appearance is the hallmark of a true gentleman, Mr Whitby,” said Clarkson. “It would be a stain upon your reputation – not to mention my own – if I let you go down to dinner with a duke without the right tailcoat. Please sit down.”
“I am a fully grown man, Clarkson, and more than capable of dressing myself. And I am not going to dinner. I am going to punch Lord Bell in the face.”
“In that case, sir, you will need your riding gloves. White kid is too delicate.” Clarkson steered Lucius back to the chair in front of the dressing table and, with surprising strength for such slender arms, forced him to sit. “Now, if you insist on dressing yourself, you must at least accept my instructions on how to do it correctly . This misaligned collar will not do at all. A little tug to the left, a tweak to the right – like so! You see how it sets off your shoulders. Now, a touch of powder will take the flush out of your complexion. It is much more refined to look cool-headed as you break a man’s nose. Shall I pour you a glass of brandy to fortify yourself?”
Lucius glowered into the mirror, hating the rich furnishings crowding the room behind him, hating the heat Isobel had brought to his face, hating that Clarkson was absolutely right about the way to adjust his collar.
Lucius , she’d said, and he’d only ever been called that by his family. He’d never known his first name could sound so sweet, so intimate, so daring. Lucius, Lucius, Lucius .
Clarkson set the glass of brandy before him. Lucius drained it in a single swallow.
“Now, I must admit even I am not entirely certain of how to dress you for the evening, sir,” said Clarkson, whipping out a pomade brush and making some sense out of the hair Lucius had all but pulled out in his rage – his passion – in whatever the emotion was that rolled through him like a summer storm when he remembered kissing Isobel.
“I understand that tonight is to be a special celebration,” Clarkson chattered on. If he had picked up any sign of Lucius’s inner agony, he was far too professional to show it. “And with His Grace attending, I think full dress is called for. But your appointment with Lord Bell presents a difficulty. Is his lordship at all likely to fight back, do you suppose? Your best tailcoat is fiendishly difficult to repair, but more to the point, you will have more ease of movement in a frock coat.”
And how good it had felt to kiss her back. What a dangerous, delicious relief to abandon all the restraints he’d tightened round his heart and his longing and his innermost fears. She’d made him forget it all.
And that was something he could not afford. In any sense of the word.
“On the other hand,” Clarkson continued, happily oblivious, “since the duke is a relative of your lady, perhaps the evening is not such a formal affair, in which case the linen tailcoat strikes a happy medium between sturdiness for physical violence and elegance for a celebratory dinner.”
Only then did a few of Clarkson’s words penetrate Lucius’s fog of misery. And those words were unwelcome indeed. “Clarkson?”
“Sir?”
“Tell me you did not just mention a duke.”
Clarkson’s brows drew into a polite frown. “Of course I did, sir. Haven’t you heard?”
Lucius hadn’t heard anything all afternoon but the sound of his name on Isobel’s lips and the pounding of blood in his ears as he stormed through the manor searching for Bell.
“Your mother is quite overwhelmed,” said Clarkson. “I hear she very nearly inhaled her smelling salts.”
Lucius clenched a fist and thunked it into his forehead, wondering whether he might feel better after punching himself in the face, since Bell was not at hand. “How did Loxwell hear so quickly?” he demanded. “Who told him? Is the entire world conspiring against me?”
Clarkson, ever the professional, merely set down the pomade brush and took up a comb. “I couldn’t say, sir. But it is not Lady Isobel’s brother who has arrived. It is the Duke of Caversham, who I believe recently married the lady’s sister.”
“Caversham?”
“Caversham.”
Lucius took a breath to calm his racing pulse. Caversham was not as bad as Loxwell. They’d been at Eton together. If anyone understood the necessity for discretion in a sticky situation, it was Caversham.
On the other hand, the gossip about the Caversham-Balfour union suggested that the man formerly known as His Gorgeous Grace, devilish flirt and ruthless politician, had cast off all his old associates and become a reformed man for love of Lady Selina. Lucius didn’t believe the half of it – there were certain types of leopard who’d never wash out all their spots – but even so, the situation required careful handling. Caversham could be vicious when crossed. If he took it into his head that Lucius had insulted a member of his new family, Loxwell’s lawyers would be the least of Lucius’s troubles.
“Forget the fistfight,” he said, rising to his feet. “Bell will have to wait. Where has my mother stashed Caversham? Has he spoken to Isobel?”
“I understand from the footmen that His Grace is being entertained by your sisters in the drawing room,” said Clarkson, smoothly intercepting Lucius as he made for the door and redirecting him to the wardrobe. “Regarding the lady, I’m afraid I have no idea. The fine wool tailcoat will do nicely, sir, if you are quite certain you have dispensed with the idea of fisticuffs. Should Lord Bell require correction after all, I must respectfully ask you to remove it before punching him, and preferably hang it over a chair.”
“There are more important things in life than one’s appearance, Clarkson,” Lucius grumbled, but he allowed the man to primp him a little. It wouldn’t do any harm to meet Caversham looking the part.
For all he knew, the next time he saw his old friend, it might be with his hat in his hand to catch the duke’s spare change.
“There we are,” said Clarkson, brushing a barely visible speck of dust from Lucius’s shoulders. “ Now you are ready to celebrate your engagement.”
Lucius turned this way and that, making a little show of admiring himself. But when he met Clarkson’s eyes in the mirror, they were grave.
“I notice you haven’t offered me your congratulations, Clarkson,” he said.
“Forgive me, Mr Whitby. You did not look as though you wanted them.”
Lucius glanced down, fiddling with his cuffs to avoid that too-knowing gaze. “I thought you were all for the idea of Lady Isobel.”
Clarkson hesitated before replying, selecting each word with care. “I am all for the idea of your happiness, sir.”
Lucius squared his shoulders, meeting his own eyes in his reflection with a broad smile. “As you can see, Clarkson, I am extremely happy.”
He was going to miss the fussy little man in more ways than one. At least he’d be able to provide Clarkson with the very best of references.
The dinner bell chimed downstairs. Lucius gave his well-groomed reflection a nod and went to meet his fate.
Maintaining his smile throughout that evening was one of the most painful experiences of Lucius’s life. Bell did not show his face to offer the relief of a confrontation. The elder Mr Whitby, though, came perilously close to being the target of physical violence as he expounded at great length on the immensely expensive parties with which he intended to celebrate the upcoming wedding. Malcolm Locke, the Duke of Caversham, sat in the place of honour and treated everyone to the same implacable, unreadable smile. It reminded Lucius of a crocodile he’d once seen in the menagerie at the Tower of London.
Randall, on the other hand, sat and pushed food around his plate with what Lucius felt was an unnecessary amount of dolour. Every so often he would raise his eyes to Isobel, his face full of tortured yearning.
Ridiculous. Randall was hardly being tortured at all. He had only his own mistakes to lament over, only his imagination to torment him. He did not have to suffer the intoxicating proximity of happiness, all the while knowing it was forever out of his reach.
Whereas Lucius, who was forced to smile and chatter and feign gladness, had tasted the intoxicating reality. Had held Isobel in his arms. Had heard her pour out her innermost fears. Had soothed her pain with kisses, had brought a light to her eyes that surpassed even the glow that suffused her when she played the harp…
“Lucius!”
A sharp heel dug into his ankle, making him jump. Beside him, Evie carried on eating as though she had not just kicked him as viciously as an angry horse.
“Lucius,” his mother repeated, her voice oddly high pitched, “did you not hear the duke speaking to you?”
Caversham turned that suspiciously bland smile to Lucius, his eyes glittering. “No need to fret, Mrs Whitby. Your son has been stricken down by a terrible affliction. We can all make allowances for those suffering from ‘love match fever’.”
Isobel glanced up from her food. “Don’t tease him, Malcolm. I’ll make you sorry if you do.”
The duke turned to her with a spark of genuine amusement in his eyes. “Dear little sister, I’d like to see you try.”
She gave a careless shrug. “I’ll tell Selina you came here to check on me. I know perfectly well that she thinks you are still in London.”
Caversham let out a dry chuckle that almost – almost – masked the alarm in his eyes. “Now there’s a threat.”
“Your Grace,” said Mr Whitby, “I have a little conundrum on my hands that you are best placed to answer. My son tells me that we must not make any mention of our happy news until he has spoken to Lady Isobel’s brother – spoken in person . Is that not a trifle overzealous? When there is no possibility of Loxwell withholding his blessing, it seems a shame to keep it all under wraps!”
“It is not my request, Father. It is Isobel’s,” said Lucius tightly. Caversham’s eyes cut to him, taking in a great deal too much.
“Yes, Malcolm,” said Isobel, ignoring the little squeak of shock that escaped Mrs Whitby each time she used the duke’s first name. “You must not breathe a word of this to Alex – or Selina.”
“What will you threaten me with this time, dear child?”
Isobel set down her cutlery and pinned him with a look. “It would upset me very much.”
The duke pressed his hand to his heart. “Another dire threat. I did not imagine the countryside would turn you so wild, Isobel. But, as it happens, I think you have the right of it. Loxwell will appreciate a discussion man-to-man before anything is made public. In fact…” He paused a moment, glancing at Isobel, who inclined her head in a barely perceptible nod. “In fact I advise that you must under no circumstances allow news of the engagement to go beyond this room.”
“Dear me,” said Mr Whitby. “I had no idea Loxwell was so difficult to please!”
“My brother likes things done properly,” said Isobel.
“Quite so,” said Malcolm, with a self-deprecating smile. “And just as allowances are made for lovers, a little consideration must be given to the tender feelings of men who are accustomed to getting their own way.” Without allowing a moment for anyone to respond, he smoothly turned the subject to a recent horse race. And, in a perfect demonstration of the point he had just made, the conversation around the table followed his lead. There was a certain momentum in the whims of a duke that took considerably more willpower to resist than Lucius’s parents possessed.
Lucius rubbed his left foot against the ankle Evie had savaged. There’d be quite a bruise there in the morning.
“What is the matter with you?” Evie asked him, speaking in a low whisper from the side of her mouth. She nodded at something her father had said and covered her mouth with a hand, feigning laughter. “Anyone would think you were planning a funeral rather than a wedding.” She shot him a brief look, dagger-sharp. “I know there’s more to this business with Isobel than meets the eye, but if you wish to avoid Caversham’s suspicion, you’d better sharpen up.”
Lucius answered with a pointed glance at the food Evie had been cutting up and pushing about her plate while barely taking a bite. “May I serve you another slice of beef, Evie? Or perhaps a little more swede?”
She gave him a smile that could turn milk sour. “Thank you, dear brother, I could not eat another bite.”
“Neither could I,” announced Mrs Whitby, rising to her feet. “Ladies, shall we withdraw?”
To Lucius’s surprise, Caversham got up as well. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr Whitby, I’d like to stop in on Lady Ursula before the hour grows any later. I am rather concerned to find her too unwell to join us for dinner, especially on such a happy occasion.” His eyes flickered to Isobel, who returned him a bland smile.
“Really, Malcolm, there’s no need to fret. Aunt Ursula never stirs when she’d rather be in bed – even for you.”
He bowed. “Indulge me. You know how I dote on the old battle-axe.” He gave a wink so roguish that Georgiana had to stifle a shriek of a giggle. “There we are. Some more ammunition for the next time you need to threaten me into good behaviour. And since the young lovers have been so reticent on the details of their sudden engagement, I am all agog for the sort of salacious detail that only Lady Ursula can provide.”
He meant to get the truth from Ursula: that was plain as day. Lucius did not know how much Isobel had confided in her aunt. But Caversham was no fool, and he was far fonder of Isobel than Lucius had bargained for. If he wanted to get to the bottom of things, he would do it in short order.
Isobel either had not noticed Caversham’s suspicions or simply did not care to acknowledge them. She caught Lucius’s eye across the table with a look that was mischief and fire – harp strings and oranges – clandestine embraces and secrets exposed.
“Be careful what you wish for. Salacious isn’t the word.” She crooked an eyebrow, gave that wicked smile, and sent heat rushing to every extremity of Lucius’s body.
He’d never in his life imagined he could be so uncomfortable at a family dinner.
Lord Randall rose abruptly to his feet. “Please excuse me, too. I am not feeling well.”
“Lady Ursula’s indisposition must be catching!” cried Mrs Whitby. “Oh, Lady Isobel, I wish you had let me send for a doctor! Only imagine if she should die in our house – and poor Randall too!”
Randall stared at Isobel with a face full of agony, but she did not notice. “I assure you, Mrs Whitby,” she said, “there’s no need for a doctor. My aunt is elderly and is easily tired. That’s all.”
“Why, Randall, you look positively frightful!” exclaimed Georgiana. “I wonder, was that chicken cooked through?”
“The chicken was perfection,” said Caversham, soothing Mrs Whitby’s cry of dismay. Behind him, unnoticed by the object of his adoration, Randall slunk from the room.
“All the same, I must now insist on calling a doctor for poor Lady Ursula,” Mrs Whitby declared. “Tell me, my lady, has she a private physician?”
“Gracious, what a thought,” said Isobel. “She could never afford such an extravagance.”
Her eyes were still fixed on Lucius, and all the mischief had dropped away. Her gaze now was pure, crackling flame.
There was silence. Lucius didn’t dare glance at his father. He caught Cassie’s expression, stone-faced and directed down at her plate. Caversham was looking askance at Isobel – as well he might, since the indelicacy of the remark was utterly unlike her.
Georgiana let out a titter of laughter, which sputtered out into silence as she realised that nobody was making a joke.
Mr Whitby leaned forwards, the edge of one sleeve trailing unnoticed in the remains of his dessert. “What on earth do you mean, my lady?”
“Why, that my aunt is but a poor spinster. Of course my brother provides her little indulgences here and there, but a personal physician! No, she’d never accept such charity.”
“Isobel!” Caversham’s tone carried a reproach which she blithely ignored.
“There’s no shame in it, Malcolm. I am sure Aunt Ursula will not mind me speaking the truth.”
“My lady,” interrupted Mrs Whitby, her face as white as the cream in the bone china jug, “surely you don’t mean to tell us that your aunt is in financial difficulties?”
“Far from it. Happily, she has more than enough family to support her.” Isobel at last dropped her defiant stare into Lucius’s eyes and turned to Mrs Whitby with a smile. “She may not be blessed with money, but she is replete with familial love. And that’s much more important, don’t you think?”
She must have learned that bland, charming, vicious smile from Caversham. It cut deep into Lucius’s heart from all the way across the table.
“Lucius,” Mr Whitby began, but his wife stopped him with a sharp hiss of warning.
“Is something the matter?” asked Isobel, still smiling.
“ Lucius …”
“Nothing is the matter, my dear Isobel!” cried Mrs Whitby. “Nothing at all! Why should it be! Why on earth!”
“Mama, there is something stuck in your throat,” said Georgiana. “You sound terribly hoarse.”
Cassie was still staring resolutely at her plate. Sir Ivor was slurping posset from his spoon with no indication that he had heard a word of the conversation. Evie was trying to catch Lucius’s attention, but he couldn’t meet her gaze.
Couldn’t tear himself from Isobel.
Had he thought that was fire in her eyes? He’d been mistaken. She was cold as winter.
“Why don’t you accompany me upstairs, Isobel?” said Caversham, in a tone that made it perfectly clear he was not asking, but giving an order. He took her hand and pulled her from her seat. “I really must see your dear aunt. This minute.”
She resisted him long enough to say something for Lucius’s ears alone. Something nobody else in the room would understand.
“E Minor. Diminished seventh.” Again, that flare of defiance. That terrible, cold flame. “In case you were wondering.”
Before Lucius could answer – long before he could begin to sound out the notes of the chord in his mind – Malcolm had whisked her away.
And left Lucius to face the music of an entirely different sort.
“Ladies, Sir Ivor, I’m afraid you must excuse us at once,” said Horace Whitby, in a voice flat with rage. “Lucius and I have an urgent matter to discuss.”