Parfit Knight (20 page)

Ignoring both
snuff and box, the Marquis said abruptly, ‘What previous
offers?’

Without undue
haste, Rockliffe passed the box to Mr Ingram and then helped
himself from it with a languid air. ‘I believe there have been
two,’ he said at length. ‘And though Lord Philip did not, for
obvious reasons, reveal the names of these unfortunate gentlemen,
one might hazard a tolerably reasonable guess. Fortune-hunters and
gamesters, both.’

‘Ludo Sterne,’
said Jack promptly, ‘and … Marcus Sheringham?’

‘My thoughts
precisely. How nice,’ said his Grace simply, ‘to have them so
beautifully endorsed. You’ll have guessed, by the way, that these
two were also rejected – but by his lordship, who didn’t consider
them worthy to approach his sister. In which, of course, he was
entirely right.’

Frowning at the
emerald on his left hand, the Marquis said, ‘You say Vernon told
you this himself? Why?’

Rockliffe took
his time about answering. His private suspicion was that Lord
Philip had hopes of seeing his sister a Duchess but this wasn’t a
thought he wanted to share, so he said negligently, ‘I imagine he
told me because, some time ago, I took the liberty of dropping a
mild hint in his ear with regard to Sheringham.’

‘Again – why?
Marcus Sheringham’s no fortune-hunter.’

‘Unfortunately,
he is. You’ve been away for nearly a year, Dominic. During that
time, Sheringham’s love-affair with the dice-box - combined with
some catastrophic investments - has brought him to the brink of
ruin. If rumour is to be believed, half of his lands are now
mortgaged – and Rosalind Vernon is not the first heiress he’s tried
to win.’ The Duke paused. ‘And then, of course, there was the
Evangeline Mortimer scandal.’

‘I remember
that,’ offered Jack. ‘But for God’s sake, Rock – it was years
ago.’

‘It was years
ago,’ agreed Rockliffe, toying with his snuff-box, ‘but people
still remember – as you’ve just proved. And it lingers on because
only two people – one of whom has apparently taken to the heather -
know what actually happened.’ He looked at Amberley. ‘Which reminds
me. Rumour has it that Francis Devereux is in Paris.’

Amberley shook
his head. ‘I doubt that. I’ve just spent the best part of a year
there – and the place is littered with my mother’s relatives. If
Devereux was there, I’d know.’

‘Perhaps. Or
perhaps – having fled the country under a cloud – he’s taking care
not to be found.’ Rockliffe leaned back and reached for his glass.
‘But I digress. We were discussing
la belle
Rosalind’s
disappointed suitors. And the question one cannot help but ask
oneself, is which of the flower-and-verse offering multitude will
declare himself next.’

Jack grinned.
‘Well, don’t shatter my illusions by saying you don’t have a
theory!’

‘I do, of
course,’ the Duke admitted slowly. ‘But I fear it’s unlikely to
prove popular. I am inclined to nominate young Rayne … or possibly
Robert Dacre.’

Mr Ingram
snorted derisively. ‘Dacre? Not a chance. And she’d never take
him.’

‘Quite. Rayne,
on the other hand … perfectly eligible and one of Lord Philip’s
friends … who knows?’ Rockliffe looked across at Amberley and
raised one enquiring brow. ‘No comment, Dominic?’

‘None.’ The
Marquis rose from his seat with lithe fluidity. ‘Except to say that
I’m going home and to bid you both goodnight.’ And with a slight
nod and a briefly mechanical smile, he walked away.

Jack watched
him go, a concerned frown shadowing his pleasant face. He said,
‘He’s in love with her, isn’t he? I had no idea – but I suppose you
knew?’

‘Yes.’ The Duke
smiled faintly. ‘I’ve known since the first time I met her. But I’m
not quite the crass oaf you imagine. For some reason, Dominic is
holding himself aloof and it seemed to me that it’s time he ceased
doing so – hence what I said. Or some of it, anyway.’

Mr Ingram eyed
him uncertainly. ‘And she?’ he asked. ‘Has it occurred to you
wonder if she returns his regard?’

‘Naturally.’
His Grace picked up the cards and, shaking back his ruffles, began
dealing them with casual expertise. ‘But you really can’t expect me
to divulge quite all my secrets, you know.’ He spread his cards and
smiled urbanely. ‘Will you declare?’

*

Not for the
first time in the last three months, the Marquis of Amberley passed
a night pacing his library floor. The first shock of Rockliffe’s
disclosures had gone, leaving behind a bleak sense of temporary
respite – for while the thought of Robert Dacre was easily
dismissed, Justin Rayne and others equally eligible were not.

The fact that
Rosalind had rejected Mr Garfield was some comfort – but it made
little difference to his lordship’s basic problem. All these weeks
he had been running very fast in order to stand still and he was no
nearer now to his goal than he had ever been; the hour, so long
awaited, was upon him and it found him unprepared. All the poise
and assurance he’d taken for granted throughout his adult life
evaporated like mist beneath the growing dread he had of
confession. He could not make the decision to say what must be
said; and he despised himself for it.

The situation,
then, was as fixed as the pole-star and as blatant. In addition to
the requisite courage, one needed some small hope that one’s
feelings might be returned; and, since one could not, in honour,
pay court without being sure one could offer marriage – nor offer
marriage without first laying bare one’s dark burden of guilt,
there was no chance for such hope to be realised. The wheel, it
seemed, had turned full circle.

‘Oh God!’ said
the Marquis aloud to the empty room. ‘What in hell’s name is the
matter with me? If I can’t do better than this, I
deserve
to
be bloody miserable!’

Unthinking, his
feet had carried him to the escritoire that occupied one of the
window embrasures and, on impulse, he pulled open a drawer and
withdrew a large sheet of parchment. For a long time he stared down
without really looking at it. He did not need to see it for he knew
what it was. The collected verses of another Marquis, some of whose
life story he had read aloud at Oakleigh … all laboriously copied
out in his own sloping hand from a torn and faded folio. They had
been meant for Rosalind; something he had thought she would like to
have. Only he had not given them to her, held back by the knowledge
that someone would have to read them to her and conscious that he
wanted that someone to be himself. So here they still were.

Slowly, his
eyes focused on the page and, quite at random, he began to read.
The stanza was by no means new to him and so it was not that which
caused his gaze to sharpen suddenly or made him go back to
re-read.

‘
He either
fears his fate too much

Or his deserts
are small,

That puts it
not unto the touch

To win or
lose it all
.’

And there it
was. No blazing comets or strange and potent omens. Just a message
from a man long dead. Amberley laid the parchment back on his desk
… and smiled.

*

Isabel looked a
little wistfully at the elegant scroll tied up with violets and
silver ribbon that the butler placed in Rosalind’s hands and then,
with dawning amusement, at the expression of resignation on its
recipient’s face.

‘Oh – Rose!’
she laughed. ‘You might at least wait until you hear what it says –
and it’s quite the prettiest one you’ve had.’

‘Is it?’
Mistress Vernon was noticeably enthusiastic. Her fingers delicately
explored the flowers and she bent her head to smell them. ‘Violets,
are they?’

Isabel allowed
the footman to take her cloak and agreed that they were.

‘Oh God,’ said
Rosalind flatly. ‘It’s going to be another ode to my eyes – I know
it. Why do they do it?’

Isabel
abandoned all thoughts of sorting out the fruits of their morning’s
shopping and ushered Rosalind into the parlour, away from prying
ears.

‘Well, I
suppose it is a little tactless. But –‘

‘
Tactless
?’ echoed Rosalind. ‘It’s asinine! But I could put
up with that if only they weren’t all so incredibly silly.
O
Goddess mine, whose purple eyes doth mine
unwary heart
capsize
,’ she parodied disgustedly. ‘I ask you – what man of
sense could write such stuff without realising that, at best, it
will only make me laugh.’

Isabel sat down
and arranged her wide, pink and cream striped skirt with a
thoughtful air.

‘None, perhaps.
But I should think that – that if one cared for a gentleman, one
wouldn’t laugh. No matter
how
bad his poetry.’

The violet eyes
widened a little. ‘No. I suppose not. I’ll admit that that aspect
of it had never occurred to me. But does Phil send you this sort of
… or no. It’s not his style, is it?’

‘No.’ Isabel
looked down at her hands. ‘I doubt if it would ever occur to
him.’

‘Do you wish it
would?’

The bluntly
phrased question caught Isabel unawares and she lost herself in a
tangle of evasive half-sentences.

‘Don’t be shy,’
said Rosalind. ‘I promise not to tell anyone.
Would
you like
Philip to address sonnets to your left eyebrow?’

A wavering
smile touched the corners of Isabel’s mouth. Then she said simply,
‘Yes. I’d like it very much indeed. But the chances of his doing so
are about as great as those of – of Rockliffe addressing such a one
to you.’

Recognising a
gallant attempt at levity, Rosalind responded by holding out the
violet-adorned scroll. ‘Don’t speak too soon. This might be the
one.’

Isabel took it
and sliding off the ribbon, opened it out. Her eyes scanned it
rapidly and then she looked, awestruck, across at Rosalind.

‘It’s not from
Rockliffe. It’s from Lord Amberley.’

‘
Amberley
?’ Shock stole Rosalind’s breath for a moment.
Then, uncertainly, ‘You’re joking, surely? He wouldn’t …
would
he?’

Isabel laughed.
‘No. It’s from Amberley and it is poetry. But he didn’t write
it.’

‘Oh,’ said
Rosalind, lamely. ‘Then who did?’

‘Someone called
James Graham. His lordship seems to have copied it out and it’s
very, very long.’

‘Oh!’ said
Rosalind again but differently. ‘James Graham was the Marquis of
Montrose and we were reading about him at Oakleigh. How kind of
Lord Amberley to remember! But I wish he’d … ‘

‘Yes? You wish
he’d what?’

‘Oh – nothing.
It’s just I’d have liked him to read it to me himself … but it
doesn’t matter. Will you do it for me?’

‘I thought
you’d never ask,’ said Isabel candidly. And, clearing her throat,
she looked down at the lines of verse and began.

‘
My dear and
only love I pray

This noble
world of thee
… ‘

And stopped
again. The brown gaze settled in awed fascination on Rosalind’s
face.

‘Goodness! I
think he
should
have come himself!’

Rosalind
grinned. ‘He didn’t write it, remember. Go on.’

So Isabel went
on and soon began to realise that those first lines were somewhat
misleading for, if this was a love-poem, it was unlike any she had
ever read. And then she arrived at the fifth verse and was in doubt
again.

‘
But if thou
will be constant then

And faithful
of thy word

I’ll make thee
glorious by my pen

And famous by
my sword.

I’ll serve
thee in such noble ways

Was never
heard before;

I’ll crown and
deck thee all with bays

And love
thee evermore.
’

She paused and
then said lightly, ‘I think that’s probably the most beautiful
declaration I’ve ever heard.’

‘Yes.’ An odd
smile lit Rosalind’s eyes. ‘But that isn’t why Lord Amberley sent
it.’

‘Is it not?’
Isabel leaned back in her chair and surveyed her future
sister-in-law with an air of mild discovery mixed with impish
retaliation. ‘And do you wish it was?’ she asked.

*

It was that
night after dinner that Lord Philip seized the opportunity of their
first evening at home inside a week and embarked on what he
intended to be a frank and thorough exploration of his sister’s
attitude to matrimony.

‘Lord Rayne,’
he said without preamble, ‘has asked my permission to pay his
addresses to you.’

Rosalind’s mind
was far away but she heard the words and replied to them with an
ease that caused scarcely a ripple in the flow of her thoughts.
‘No.’

‘No?’ echoed
Philip. ‘What do you mean – no?’

She stirred
reluctantly. ‘I mean that I won’t marry him. But I don’t mind
telling him so myself if you would prefer it.’

The total lack
of interest in her tone roused his lordship to indignation.

‘Generous of
you! But is it too much to ask what’s wrong with Rayne?’

‘Nothing,’
replied Rosalind patiently, ‘that I can think of. But I don’t want
to marry him.’

‘Why not? I
understood you turning Lewis Garfield down – I don’t like him much
myself. But Rayne’s a good fellow and heir to an earldom. You can’t
just keep on refusing perfectly good offers for no particular
reason.’

‘Actually, I
can. I like Lord Rayne – but not well enough to live with him for
the rest of my life.’

‘Then who,’ he
demanded sarcastically, ‘
are
you going to marry?
Rockliffe?’

A slow smile
curled Rosalind’s mouth.

‘You’re taking
a lot for granted. He hasn’t asked me.’

‘But if he
did?’

The smile grew
infinitely wicked.

‘You can’t
seriously expect me to answer that, can you?’

Lord Philip
eyed her with gloomy exasperation as she sat idly turning a roll of
parchment between her hands.