I Adored a Lord (19 page)

“It is a very nice sword. I enjoyed using it as a threat.”

He paused. “I have no doubt that you did.”

“You could wield it quite dashingly in the play today. Until you perish upon Romeo's blade, of course.”

He bowed. “I live to dash, madam.”

For a moment he was silent again with that air of waiting. But she found nothing to say, no easy quip in response. She was imagining what it might be like to clasp him to her like she had clasped the bolster, to feel the muscles of his back beneath that fine linen shirt with the palms of her hands. She wanted to hold him like that. She longed for it, but it was not a welcome longing, rather tinted with strange despair.

He walked toward her until they were nearly toe-­to-­toe and she had to bend her neck to look into his face.

“Will you forgive me for handling you so harshly outside Miss Feathers's door?” he said.

Her mouth was dry. “I took no note of it.”

His hand circled her arm where he had held her before, but with gentleness at odds with the roguish figure he now cut. His thumb caressed.

“I fear for you, Ravenna.” He said it simply and she wondered how she had ever mistrusted him, even for a moment.

“You needn't. I told you that you needn't.”

“Yet I do.” The crease appeared in his cheek. “In any case, I am loath to allow a woman to tell me my business. Even a controlling woman like you.”

“Are you?” His thumb caressed again and her heartbeats fluttered. “How positively medieval of you.”

He bent his head. “Take care, will you? I did not fish you out of that river for naught. I should like you to remain alive for the foreseeable future.”

“So that you can order me around and alternately tease me, I suppose.”

He smiled. “Yes.” Then he did what she did not expect: he kissed her brow. Softly, gently, not a transitory peck but a permanent marking, he took the most innocuous possession of her. When he drew away and looked into her eyes, she could not speak.

“Good,” he said. “I am glad we understand each other now.” His hand slipped from her and he walked away.

In point of fact she understood little, and now considerably less than before. Only her father had ever kissed her on the brow. Lord Vitor, however, did not stir in her feelings of filial duty or tolerance. Nor did she feel for him the grateful friendship she felt for Petti and Sir Beverley, or even the comfortable affection she bore Taliesin, who had been like a brother to her since childhood. Toward Lord Vitor Courtenay she harbored a tangled confusion of pleasure and fear—­tumultuous, gripping feelings that she wished to run both toward and from at great speed.

P
RINCE
S
EBASTIAO PLAYED
the parts of both narrator and Romeo in the production. Ravenna and the other women to whom the prince had not assigned roles, with Monsieur Brazil and Monsieur Sepic, sat at the bottom of the shallow flight of stairs in luxurious comfort while the sounds of preparations behind elegant curtains finally quieted.

The prince strode across the top riser, a vital figure in gold silk and black ermine, his hat a masterpiece of ancient haberdashery. He liked fancy dress; that had been clear from the first. But this was unprecedented magnificence.

“Two households, both alike in dignity,” he proclaimed, “in fair Verona where we lay our scene, from ancient grudge break to new mutiny, where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. From forth the fatal loins of these two foes a pair of star-­cross'd lovers take their life.” He recited the verse with fluid comfort.

“He is an actor,” Iona whispered in Ravenna's ear. “No wonder he wanted to do the play so ardently.”

Sir Henry and Mr. Anders appeared from behind the curtain clad in hose and doublets, swords at their sides and caps covering their heads.

“Gregory!” Sir Henry boomed. “O' my word, we'll not carry coals!”

“No, for then we should be colliers,” Mr. Anders replied with feeling.

Lord Case came on and began remonstrating with them. But Ravenna could barely follow. Shakespeare's stories were wonderful, but she never quite understood the poetry, no matter how Eleanor and Sir Beverley had labored to give her an appreciation for it. The trouble now, however, had nothing to do with poetry. Staring at Lord Case and Mr. Anders's legs in hose while anticipating Lord Vitor's entrance onto the stage was causing her the most unpleasant heart palpitations.

As it turned out, the hose suited him to devastating advantage. When he entered, with a mocking air he demanded of Lord Case, “What, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds? Turn thee, Benvolio, look upon thy death.” He unsheathed his sword and leveled it at his brother. Stomach in knots, Ravenna wished she could turn away. Even more fervently she wished that he had not kissed her on the brow in that fatherly manner.

Everyone acted splendidly, despite Lord Vitor's earlier humility and Sir Henry's tendency to shout his lines. Juliana's uncle, the bishop, teetered onto the stage to deliver the prince's lines. Lord Whitebarrow made a suitably self-­important Lord Montague, while Lady Whitebarrow, playing the part of Lady Montague, glowed in speaking of Romeo as her son. The prince's rhapsodizing over first fair Rosaline then Juliet's beauty won chuckles then sighs from the audience. The true astonishment, however, was Martin Anders. As Mercutio, his monologue on the way to the Capulets' party mesmerized.

“I've niver seen a better Mercutio,” Iona whispered.

Full of mad emotion and violent agitation, he seemed not to act but to live the part. Ravenna knew he could not possibly be the murderer. No man who wore his dramatic soul like a brilliant red cloak, openly and with such ardor, could kill without afterward swiftly declaring his guilt to the world.

Her certainty did not, however, swallow the bees battling in her stomach when he shouted, “Tybalt, you rat-­catcher, will you walk?” and drew his sword on Lord Vitor.

“They've blunted the blades, lass,” Iona whispered. “Dinna fear.” But her hands were clenched in her lap too.

“What wouldst thou have with me?” Lord Vitor said to the fool.

“Good king of cats,” Mr. Anders scowled and advanced upon him. “Nothing but one of your nine lives.”

The audience now included members of the cast not on stage. Drawn into mad Mercutio's furor, they stared, entranced. Apparently alone in being unmoved, Monsieur Brazil stood up with customary formality and walked to the foyer. A man stood just within the castle's front door, cloaked in homespun. A hood concealed his head and his brown skirts scraped the floor.

At the head of the stairs Lord Vitor declared, “I am for you.”

Ravenna's attention snapped back to the stage.

“Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up,” Prince Sebastiao pleaded with Mr. Anders.

Mr. Anders shrugged him off. “Come sir,” he urged Lord Vitor. “Your passado.”

Metal clashed. Behind Ravenna, Juliana Abraccia gasped. Sir Henry clapped his hands and exclaimed, “Good show, gentlemen!”

But it didn't look like they were mock fighting. Ravenna knew little of gentlemanly sport, but this looked real.

Iona reached over and clasped her hand tight.

“Draw, Benvolio!” the prince called frantically to Lord Case. “Beat down their weapons.” Sleeves billowing, he leaped toward Mr. Anders and Lord Vitor. “Gentlemen, for shame, forbear this outrage!”

Mr. Anders cast a swift glance toward the door where Mr. Brazil and the stranger stood. Turning eyes filled with desperation again upon Lord Vitor, he shouted, “He shall not escape my pain!” and thrust his sword forward.

“Shakespeare didna write that line,” the duchess muttered with disapproval.

Ravenna's heart stumbled. She pushed up from her chair. Iona followed.

Arielle leaped to her feet. “
Ma petite,
” she exclaimed, and ran toward the door.

Steel clanged upon stone. A sword tumbled down the stairs to come to rest at Ravenna's feet. Amidst velvet and gold on the stage, she made out Mr. Anders's two empty hands and she choked upon a swell of relief.

Mr. Anders dropped to his knees, threw his arm over his face, and cried, “Oh, I am fortune's fool!”

“An' that be Romeo's line, no Mercutio's,” the duchess said.

Lord Vitor moved toward Mr. Anders and stood above him. His brother descended the stairs and followed General Dijon to the doorway where Arielle clutched the tiny white dog to her bosom.

“
Merci
, monsieur.
Merci,
” she said to the hooded man, her face brilliant. The dog wiggled with joy in its mistress's embrace.

Prince Sebastiao called across the hall, “Father Denis. What brings you down to Chevriot from your mountain peak?”

“Your highness.” The hermit bowed. His voice sounded rough and unused. “This morning I smelled smoke in the shed in which I store my gardening tools. When I entered, I discovered a fire that had been doused, and this miserable creature. I guessed that it must belong to the chateau. It seems I was correct.”

The general shook the hermit's hand. “
Merci, mon père
.”

“But how did the little dog come to be there?” Juliana Abraccia asked, wide-­eyed.

“I did it!” Anguish rang through Mr. Anders's words. “I abducted the dog and put it in the hermit's shed. It was me! I am at fault!” He lifted his face fraught with misery to the general's daughter. “Mademoiselle, will you ever forgive me? Can you?”

“How singular,” Lady Whitebarrow said with a pinched nose. “Whatever did you want with the animal?”

He turned a dark glare upon his father. “He made me do it.”

Everyone stared at Lord Prunesly.

“What could you have wanted, sir, with my daughter's dog?” General Dijon demanded.

Cecilia Anders stood up. “He wished to study its tongue.”

“Study a dog's tongue?” Sir Henry demanded. “In the name of Zeus, that is preposterous, Prunesly.”

“You are mistaken,” Lord Prunesly stated. “As always, my children understand nothing.” He peered through his spectacles as though he were noticing everybody for the first time. “The dog is a rare find. I do not wish to
study
it,” he said with a scowl at his daughter. “I have all the information I need about it already. It is the sole living specimen of its breed to bear a black spotted tongue. A breeding bitch, no less. It is a remarkable find. Exceptional.”

“If you did not wish to study her, why did you hide her in that shed?” Ravenna asked.

“To freeze.” Arielle shivered and hugged her dog close. “
Ma pauvre petite
.”

“She would have been no use to me frozen, mademoiselle,” the baron said shortly.

“Papa planned to take her to a scientific meeting of the Linnaeus Society,” Cecilia said. “He intended to show her to his colleagues and win renown. Isn't that right, Papa?”

“That dog is the proof I have searched for these past twenty years that recessive traits are carried through the fourth generation of females,” Lord Prunesly said. “I would have been awarded the Medal of Linnaeus for proving my theory. My findings would have been celebrated throughout Europe. And you, daughter, would have benefitted from it.”

Cecilia laughed, but sadly. “How, Papa? If you mean by marriage to one of your ivory tower acolytes, I am even less interested in that than marriage to a prince.” She moved toward Arielle and her father. “Miss Dijon, I cannot tell you how dreadfully sorry I am that my father has done this. I begged him not to steal your dog. I did not entirely believe he would do it until he actually did. And Sir Henry.” She turned to the horse breeder. “It was a mistake. Poor judgment on my father's part—­exceedingly poor. Can you forgive his vanity? Think only of the successes your stables could see if we joined forces.”

“Well, miss,” Sir Henry said, his doublet stretching beneath a heavy sigh. “I am an honest man and it seems that your father isn't the sort I like to do business with after all. I should have liked to hear more of your ideas, but we'll have to put that aside now.” He shook his head regretfully.

“Your highness,” said General Dijon, “will you chastise Lord Prunesly?”

The prince cast Lord Vitor a quick glance, then stepped to the edge of the landing. “My lord,” he said to the biologist, “I demand that you apologize to the general and Mademoiselle Dijon, and when the snow begins to melt that you depart my house at once.”

“But what of Mr. Anders?” Lady Penelope said. “He is not a child to do everything his father demands. The animal might have died, after all. Should not he be punished for the actual crime?”

“Why didn't it die after all those days in the cold?” Lady Margaret asked. “It's smaller than a capon.”

“My brother climbed that wretched mountain every day,” Cecilia said, “up to his knees in ice, to care for that dog. He lit a fire every morning to warm the shed, and fed her his own breakfast. For his care of it, and for enduring our father's threats to cut off his allowance if he did not obey, he should not have to suffer further punishment.”

“But, he should.” Lord Case moved away from Arielle. “Mr. Anders, for the distress you have caused Mademoiselle Dijon and her father, I demand satisfaction.” He stripped off his blue and gray Montague gauntlet and tossed it onto the stone floor.

“But—­but, my lord!” Mr. Anders climbed to his feet but his shoulders were slumped and his hair fell across one of his eyes entirely. “I cared for that dog like it was my very own—­rather, better than that.”

“But ye might've told his royal highness instead, lad,” the duchess said with a nod. “Ye must pay the consequences o' yer folly.”

He dashed his arm across his eyes once more and released a mighty groan. “God, I am undone!”

“Vitor.” Lord Case looked to his brother on the landing. “Will you act as my second?”