Paxton Pride (72 page)

Penscott, angered by Jason's impertinent indictment, started at the seeming non sequitur. “Will ten suit His Highness?”

Advisor and monarch whispered briefly before King George strode off without another glance at the tense circle. All faces turned to the count. “His Majesty suggests eleven. Afterward, he will retire to his chambers for luncheon. M'lord Brand may join him there briefly.” With a quick bow, he too was gone.

Lord Penscott cast a look of alarm toward James Gregory. The captain had joined the circle in the middle of the conversation and stood silently gauging the Scot and devising means to lure him into a situation resolvable through a duel. Some caution had to be exercised in order to assure the king not be angered unduly. Gregory nodded imperceptibly toward Penscott and fell in step at Jason's side. “We meet again, m'lord,” he said, irritated at having to walk next to someone as tall as himself. “Do you gamble?”

Jason smiled warily. “I have read
The Compleat Gamester
.”

“Then you play at cards.”

“Yes. But I do not … play.”

“And Hazard?”

“I have some small experience with the dice.”

“Good. We must game this evening.”

“If you wish, Captain.”

“I shall look forward to our meeting, then,” Gregory replied, a little too jovially. He sauntered away, proud of himself. Lose to the Scot, accuse him of cheating—a little trick would help—and a challenge would have to be issued. The exquisite pair of pistols waited, and this night would seal Brand's fate. As planned.

Great glittering chandeliers overhead smoked and glowed. Candles ringed the walls of the lower hall and added to the glare, keeping busy the one servant whose sole function was to replace those that had burned out.

Marie drifted, as in a trance, from group to group, listening as she'd been told. How exciting it all was! How beautiful she felt! Now and again a woman cast a jealous glance her way, to which Marie responded with secret joy: to be envied by the likes of Arabella was one thing, by ladies of station and the court quite another. Seven times she was asked to dance by earnest young—and one or two not so young—men. Each time she refused, for she didn't know the steps, but each time she felt more at ease in conversation. Twice she glimpsed the handsome Scottish lord, once actually bumped into him. When he winked and contrived to hold her hand, she fled, not having, in his case, the slightest idea of what to say.

Near midnight, her courage bolstered and a speech rehearsed, she found herself searching again, and was dismayed to find him standing beside Gwendolyn. Her heart almost stopped, and the magic drained out of the evening. Oblivious to the surroundings, she fled to the rear of the hall where a servant girl belonged in the first place, and found refuge in a corner of the kitchen.
Why should I care? I have heard the men of Scotland are worse than beasts. Even if he did kiss me, it probably meant nothing to him. No
—and she fought to suppress the tears—
No! I will not care!

The kitchen air was thick with clashing odors, savory and foul, vying for dominance. Each prevailed in turn as doors opened or closed and fresh air from the outside intruded. A toiling cook's helper, tongs in hand, lifted a golden-crusted marrowbone pie from the fiery hearth. Bubbling currants, dates, potatoes, artichokes and sugar-spiced marrow gave off a rich and palatable aroma which, once the pie was set on a long board to join a battery of cooling companions, melded with the conglomeration of other odors. Quince pies, berry tarts and a delightful array of Florentines, the most marvelous of treats concocted from cinnamon, kidney, currants, cream and eggs stood in long rows, constantly diminished and added to according to demand from the great hall.

The cook's helper wiped a perspiring brow and reached into the flames once again, like an angler fishing for delectable treasures in a fiery sea. Jonathan Ringe, the master chef, strode forth to examine her handiwork. He was a man of immense girth, and Marie could imagine five such as herself fitting comfortably into a single pair of Ringe's breeches. Feared and esteemed, the huge chef ran his kitchen with an iron hand, and woe to the girl or boy, man or woman who gave any lord or lady cause to impugn or criticize so much as a biscuit. At times he was brusque to a fault. Then Marie feared him, for he employed what he was fond of calling his magic knuckle: one great hand would lash out and pop an offender on the skull with the knuckle of his forefinger. At other times he could be curiously soft, even sentimental. Marie—and the others—loved him then, for more than once had he interceded when Thrush overstepped his bounds or when one of their number was ill or in trouble.

The obese chef nodded approval, much to the helper's relief, and moved away to the rear wall, where racks of meats sizzled and spun over grease-spattered coals. Sides of beef, saddles of mutton, collops of pork, all endured the punishment together. Ringe waddled past and grabbed a jack, filling it from a keg at hand and draining the ale without pausing for breath. Massive layers of rippling fat jiggled as he swallowed. Sweat poured in rivulets down his cheeks, only to be lost in the cavernous ridges lining his neck. Overseeing the preparation of fifty-two dishes required total concentration and a vast expenditure of energy. Comments—praise and condemnation—would come the next day, when once again the incredible Ringe would prove that no detail was too small to merit his attention.

Thrush hurried into the kitchen and spotted Marie in her corner. His beakish nose almost touched her face. “What're you doing here, girl? The master wants you in the upper halls again, and enjoins you to mind your French.”

Marie nodded in compliance, though there was no joy in the prospect of returning upstairs. Edmond Penscott had more than made his intentions clear earlier in the evening, as had Captain Gregory. The thought of being accosted by either was unpleasant in the extreme, but the notion of discovering Jason Brand and the seductive Lady Penscott was the least pleasant of all.

Roger Penscott paced his private study. The hour was late and he was tired. The festivities continued, and though bed and sleep were devoutly wished, protocol required the host's presence until the king retired. The door flew open and an exasperated Captain Gregory entered. “Well?”

Gregory shrugged. “Two hours I have spent listening to a damned bunch of silly damned nonsense, and lost a tidy sum in the bargain. And still Brand does not show as promised. Where he has got to I know not. However, I am in no position to accuse him of rookery if he refuses to face me at the table.”

“And Edmond?”

“Tippling too much of the latest Burgundy.”

“Well enough. Make sure he's kept from further altercations with Brand. The lad's tongue outspeeds his good sense, unfortunately.”

“Brand rubs me the wrong way. I don't like him,” the captain said. “It appears Edmond and I are of like mind.”

“But not of like ability, as should be evident. Edmond is rash, headstrong and young. In him are all the attributes of the successful, but he lacks seasoning and experience.”

“I have heard he can fire a pistol,” Gregory remarked a little too drily.

“Shooting a poacher is no basis for claiming proficiency on the dueling ground.”

“A lad must learn. When the spirit is willing, they say.”

Penscott thumped his cane on the floor. “Brand is
your
duty. Keep him away from my son.”

Gregory, feeling more confident than in days, took the liberty of pouring a glass of port. He smiled most prettily. “M'lord may relax. Edmond has forgotten the episode with Brand. In fact, he has eyes for little more than what he perceives as a vast new harem. Giving credit where credit is due, he's fast, Burgundy or no. One of the easy ones has fallen already, and the lad's working on a second.”

“Who?” Penscott straightened, obviously perturbed.

“The black-haired wench who serves your wife. She looks damned good done up in that gown, by the way.”

“Damn!”

Gregory chuckled. “Why, m'lord. Certainly you don't harbor plans of a more personal nature for the young thing?”

Roger Penscott stared shrewdly at the captain. “My plans are no concern of yours, Captain, except for that small part you play upon command. The girl is a virgin, upon whom I place a high value. Hers is a treasure not to be squandered lightly, but saved for greater gain at the appropriate time. You will personally warn Edmond away from her, as will I if I see him first. Marie Celeste Ravenne is my property. Never forget that. Now, get out of here and see to Jason Brand.”

Gregory paused but a moment before hurrying out. The old man was on a high horse and best not crossed. When those with power wove sticky webs, James Gregory was wise enough to walk cautiously, lest he become ensnared and found victim with the rest of the unfortunates.

Gwendolyn Penscott sighed, dangled an arm and snared a petit four from the tray on the floor. Two hours' worth of meticulous toilet lay strewn about in disarray. The diamond-encrusted stomacher lay over a chair. Her gown was bunched under her, half draping over the edge of the bed. Only her hairdo had been carefully preserved. A pearl fell from a torn thread and rolled from bed to floor to join three more of its brothers. Clearly the seamstress had never intended the delicately sewn creation to be treated so harshly, and hours of painstaking labor would be required before the garment could be worn again. The heavily iced pastry disappeared. She took another and turned onto her side, making no attempt to cover the still warm reaches of that nest wherein her lover's proud staff had disgorged its fiery contents to the mutual satisfaction of both parties. The wisp of silk that had pretended to cloak her splendid breasts was long since a memory, discarded just inside the bedroom door. “A most delectable repast, Sir Stallion,” she cooed, touching the cake to his lips, coyly pulling it away as Jason attempted to bite.

“I trust we … dine … in solitude, madam.”

“This guest room is to remain empty, so to speak,” she giggled, once again withdrawing the treat. “There is nothing to fear.”

“I did not speak of fear, mistress,” Jason answered in a dark tone. “But I should hate to suffer the indignity of defending myself in the altogether.” He grabbed a third time, missed. “And at that, for a bawdy wench who denies me …” Laughing heartily, he dove across bed and lady, joining the wrestling match with a will.

Gwendolyn switched the petit four to her other hand, warded off the attack. “Sir! Your familiarity is shocking,” she laughed, nipping at his wrist.

Jason yelped, rubbed the bright red tooth marks. “Only a moment ago you begged for familiarity, madam.” A gleam of mock anger burned in his eyes. “Curse it, woman, will I have the cake or no?”

Gwendolyn, with a look of wild promise, lay back, broke the sweet into three pieces. The first, she balanced atop her left breast. Grinning, Jason rose to his knees, boldly naked and looming over her as he dipped to enjoy the dessert. Gwendolyn sighed with pleasure, placed the second morsel on slightly pursed lips. Her lover took that also, with a long and languid kiss.

“And the last?” he whispered, his voice thick.

Gwendolyn placed the last tidbit on that most intimate center of her passion. “I have saved the last … for best, Sir Stallion.” Voice husky, her breathing became more rapid, rising in intensity as his flesh slid along hers, as his tongue found the delicacy … and more.

Marie smiled and accepted a glass of wine from a Hanoverian aristocrat who had already imbibed to excess. So far she had gleaned little other than the fact the Tories were anathema. Such news was no news, for everyone knew the Jacobite taint excluded them from any serious consideration. Of the Whigs, there was nary a word spoken. The king's advisors, reluctant to choose too quickly between competing, power-hungry Whig factions, had counseled their monarch to bide his time before accepting the earnestly offered friendship of any. In the midst of rumor, gossip and intrigue, the Hanoverians kept tight rein on their tongues, letting slip nothing of use for Marie or any other spy to carry to his host.

On a deeper level, she was engrossed with a more personal problem. Edmond had caught her eye thrice during the night, each time with a lascivious, bone-chilling smile. Now he had located her again. Glimpsing the young lord stalking imperiously across the room in pursuit, she curtsied, ducked behind a knot of revelers and exited quickly through a side door.

At once angry and frightened, Marie attempted to lose herself in the shadowy recesses of a side corridor, a little-used passage that led to the rear entrance of a sculpture gallery. Cobwebs caught at her face and dust choked her throat but she persevered, groping through the pitch-black hall until a narrow door opened with a squeal at the pressure of her outstretched hand.

Fear ebbed. The gallery was being repaired and redecorated, and the main doors had been bolted for the past month. She was safe. Edmond would search for a few minutes and then give up and go back to his Burgundy. A noise in the hidden corridor! The rear and supposedly secret door flew open. Edmond stepped through. A quick smile illuminated by the candelabrum he carried spoke of greed and triumph. “An apt concealment, mistress. For both of us.” Marie stared in mute surprise. Edmond shrugged. “You forget I used to live here, and have explored the manor from front to rear.”

The light from the candelabrum was enough. Marie bolted across the floor, leaping tools and chunks of wood, darting around scattered sculptures. If she could reach the main door and unlock it, escape …

Edmond grabbed her as the bolts flew open. “No. Do not run away, my dear. I've been enamored since the moment I first saw you and learned who you are.” Holding her wrist in an iron grip, he retreated from the door, not noting that it had opened slightly. “I've been told you're a virgin. Though I doubt any such good fortune, there is only one way to learn the truth.” Placing the candelabrum down on a pedestal, he drew her close. “I hope 'tis true. I've not had …”