Chapter 7 #3
It was nicely done, but Nic had to master the urge to kick her beneath the table. His father was already scowling.
“My son has long given up performing, I’m afraid, Lady Leaf,” the duke said. “Further study in such an art would hardly have been fulfilling.”
“Oh, let him entertain us, Val,” Lord Ricard drawled, throwing something of a challenging look toward the duke. “You once said all study can be made fulfilling if it’s desired, did you not? Besides, we wouldn’t want the evenings getting dull, eh, Charles?”
Thus applied to, Lord Charborough rumbled agreement without looking up. “It is a private party.”
Nic’s unshakable love of the art warred with his father’s disapproval, and as the other guests added their voices, he had the odd feeling he was walking into a trap. Yet all he could do was smile and agree, stomach churning all the while.
Dinner seemed interminable after that, but eventually the duchess rose from her seat, signalling it was time for the ladies to retire to the drawing room. Leaf followed with her aunt and companions, and in their absence Nic fully intended to devote himself only to his wineglass.
“It’ll be nice to hear you sing again.”
Nic startled, almost knocking his glass over. “What?”
“I recall you were quite talented,” Dashiell said, no sign in his bearing that the night before had happened at all. “At conjuring, I mean.”
“Talented is an overstatement, but I used to enjoy it.”
“Used to? You conjured fireflies on the roof while we were locking the doors the other day. They were very good,” Dashiell added when Nic said nothing, shocked to discover the vowsmith had been watching him.
“The use of ka instead of hemet was particularly inspired. Although I admit I’m guessing and will be embarrassed when you tell me you used totally different sigils. ”
Despite everything, Nic found himself smiling back. “It was ka. It makes a nicer curve, though it can be hard to connect onto shem in the progression.” Holding up his hands, he mimed the movement. As he went from ka to shem, he paused. “See? Easy to tangle yourself up there.”
“I wouldn’t dare try, truthfully,” Dashiell said. “My hands are far too used to holding a quill. I’m getting scribe’s hand. It’s very distressing.”
“Scribe’s hand.” Nic snorted a laugh. “That’s not a real thing.”
“Oh? You malign my suffering? Cruel, my lord, cruel. I’m too young to die.”
Forgetting where they were, Nic balled up his napkin and threw it across the table, both of them grinning as Dashiell took the ball of linen in the face.
“That might be considered proper behaviour in the scullery, but not at my table, Nicholas,” his father said, breaking off his conversation to glare. “My apologies, Master sa Vare, it appears my son has not yet left the nursery.”
“I’m afraid I greatly provoked him, Your Grace, and utterly deserved it.” Dashiell nodded an apology in the duke’s direction while Nic tried to sink through the floor.
When the duke went back to ignoring them, Dashiell said, “Did you ever get that conjuring tutor you wanted?”
“No.”
With anyone else, Nic would have shrugged and said he had changed his mind, but Dashiell would know it for a lie.
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” Nic huffed a humourless laugh, their friendly moment fracturing upon too many hurts. “Of all the things you have to be sorry for, that’s not one of them.”
The words were out before he could retrieve them and Nic wished he could shove the balled-up napkin into his own mouth.
Across the table, Dashiell’s lips parted and for a moment it seemed he might answer, before he looked away—the vowsmith as intent on ignoring the past as he was on leaving that furious kiss unacknowledged.
Nic told himself he didn’t care. Whatever they might once have had was long gone.
He’d gotten on with his life. He’d had his share of lovers—nameless, forgettable, not Dashiell—and now he was getting married.
Best to leave Dashiell in the past where he belonged.
With a scrape of his chair, Lord Ricard stood. “Well, if you’ll all excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, an empty smile sweeping across the table. “I am expecting important correspondence via the evening post.”
“Come,” Lord Charborough said, lifting his glass. “Let Gillingham take care of it. You are a guest and ought to act like one.”
“Spoken like a man for whom business is something that happens to other people, Brother. As well I tell you to give up your dusty books. No. You stay and enjoy your wine while I have a care to our fortune.”
Lord Ricard strode out on the words, leaving the duke to murmur, “I hope Gillingham is a very good scribe, since he is no longer a vowsmith.”
“Wasn’t that a shock?” Charborough said. “Although I can’t say I like the man much myself, and greater men than he have been kicked out of the guild. Do you remember when Lord Everington was excommunicated, Val?”
“For smithing contracts under a false name, no less.” The duke laughed—so rare a sound that Nic stared. “And not being good enough to pull it off.”
From there, the duke and Lord Charborough fell into reminiscences about old times, bringing more smiles to the duke’s face than Nic had ever seen.
Side by side, they sat talking like no one else existed, the familiarity that of old friends, whatever he’d heard about the dislike between their families.
It seemed they could have gone on so for hours, leaving the rest of the company to desultory talk, but after ten minutes the duke’s scowl returned and he rose abruptly, suggesting they join the ladies.
Nic was more than happy to do so, but as he made for the door, his father’s hand dropped onto his shoulder. “A moment, Nicholas.”
The rest of the gentlemen filed out, leaving the duke fixing Nic with one of his heavy stares—a look made worse by the dark glasses behind which he had tucked away all emotion. “You will not sing tonight, Nicholas. I will make your excuses, and in future I suggest you make no such promises.”
“But, sir—”
“No,” the duke snapped, grip tightening on Nic’s shoulder. “We don’t need another useless conjuror in this family. That is my final word.”
He let go and strode out, leaving Nic standing alone, breath caught in the wake of such coiled fury. It was nothing he hadn’t heard before, yet it was some minutes before he could pull himself together enough to return to the drawing room.
There he found Lady Lisbeth already sitting at the pianoforte, while Millie searched through a stack of old music.
By the fire, Lady Theresa and the duchess sat in what could have been called a conversation had it been going both ways, while Leaf admired the echoes that called the drawing room aviary their home.
Dr. Fanshaw stood at her side, and Nic would have left the man to his attempted flirtations had Leaf not caught sight of him and beckoned him over.
“Nic. You must settle a disagreement.”
“Hardly a disagreement, my lady,” the doctor murmured. “I merely made the observation—”
“I thought these birds were bred as companions,” Leaf interrupted. “But Dr. Fanshaw has pointed out they have quite large claws. Are they hunting birds?”
With an apologetic glance at the doctor, Nic said, “They were originally bred for hunting and we still keep hunting stock, but not in the house. These are gentle.” With a flick he unlatched the cage door and reached inside.
At a whistle, the largest male hopped toward Nic’s hand and curled its long, scaly claws around his fingers.
“This is Lord Featherington,” Nic said, bringing the bird up to his face.
“Love Nicholas,” the regal echo trilled, nuzzling first one side of Nic’s jaw and then the other.
Leaf laughed, and at the applause behind him, Nic discovered the whole room was watching. Including Dashiell, perched on the arm of a nearby sofa. Embarrassed, Nic gave a half shrug. “They’re really very sweet.”
“That they are,” his father agreed with something of a snap. “Now if you’ll all excuse me. Her Grace is tired. I must escort her to her rooms before we begin our evening festivities.”
The duchess sat staring at nothing, hands clasped in the soft folds of her pale blue gown. Nic was glad she had come to dinner, but was equally glad for the duke’s rare display of care as he offered her his arm amid cheerful good nights.
“He’s very attentive,” Leaf said, watching Nic’s parents leave arm in arm.
“Only because guests are watching. Do you want to hold Lord Featherington?”
Leaf hesitated, caught between desires. Courage won. “All right, what do I do?”
“Hold out your hand like this—that’s right, and now just relax.” She nodded, and Nic gave the regal echo a small nudge. With a flap of glorious gold-spotted wings, Lord Featherington hopped onto Leaf’s hand.
She flinched, but the bird was too old and well trained to be troubled, settling tall and proud with its claws curled around her wrist. “He’ll nuzzle you if you put your face close to his,” Nic said.
“Are you sure?”
“Don’t worry, they don’t eat people.”
With a nervous smile, Leaf leaned in. Once she was close enough, the echo nuzzled first one of her cheeks, then the other, before sitting back and trilling, “Love Nicholas.”
Chuckles spread through the room and Leaf looked around at their audience. “Well, not yet, but he’s very bearable.”
Nic couldn’t help glancing at the doctor over Leaf’s shoulder and never had he seen a more miserable expression. The man was clearly smitten, and Nic’s heart twisted in sympathy. Too well did he know the feeling of love where no love ought to live.
As though summoned by the thought, Dashiell approached as Nic put the echo back into the aviary.
“He’s a beautiful specimen,” he said, eyes on the bird as Nic locked the cage door. “One of yours?”
“If you mean did I train him, yes. You know nothing is really mine.”
When Dashiell didn’t answer, the urge to demand what had happened the previous night almost overwhelmed Nic. It tasted bitter as he swallowed it, and he turned to watch Dr. Fanshaw squire Leaf toward the pianoforte.