The Lord Who Sneered and Other Tales (11 page)

“Oh, Grandaunt, Baldwin might not have known what to say, but I do not lack for words! This I must tell you: I have often been lonely since my father died. Since coming here, I have felt entirely alone, even in a house filled to the rafters with people. Yet, at this moment, there is no place I should rather be.”

As she lowered her head to rest against her grandaunt’s shoulder, Regina, the Dowager Duchess of Marcross, realized that this slip of a girl was the greatest gift of all. What was a prize bloom compared to her very own Christmas rose; someone with whom to deck the halls, stir the Figgy
pudding and commemorate the day? It was true that Ginny was possessed of a few thorns, but she was someone to love and be loved by in return. In point of fact, if the Dowager played her cards right, Miss Ginny Delacourt should wed the Dowager’s dearest grandson and, in time, the sound of children’s laughter would fill the rose gardens of Dunsmere once more.

The Lord Who Sneered

England Dec. 10th, 1818

“I assure you, I am not a’tall misunderstood,” Julian, Marquis of Trevelin insisted. It was in response to the remark of a visitor from Milan who dared to assume the scar the Marquis bore must consistently lead to the misapprehension of all those around him, for whether he was happy or sad, cheerful or angry, it appeared as if he perpetually sneered. “In point of fact, there is little in life that requires any reply save a sneer,” he drawled as he placed his glass on a tray and took himself out onto the veranda to hide his ire.

Or so concluded one Lady Sophie Lundell who observed the entire exchange from her position behind the bats-in-the-belfry Lady Avery and her feathered turban of vast proportions. As it was Lady Sophie’s very first ball, she could hardly say whether or not it might reflect poorly upon her should she follow the Marquis into the cool of the night, though she longed to do just that.

It was not that she felt sorry for him. Still, she could hardly do otherwise; the scar at one corner of his mouth did, indeed, create the impression that he continually looked on the world with disdain. It was not the least comfortable when the glance of his ice blue eyes fell on one for he gave the impression he disapproved of everything and everyone.

Still, it was not her compassion she wished to inflict upon him but her insatiable curiosity. Only, how was she to have her inquiries satisfied when they had not been properly introduced? Though
she had heard tell of the corrupt Lord Trevelin, had been warned against him by her father in particular, the Marquis hadn’t the slightest notion of whom she might be. It seemed impudent in the extreme to follow him out onto the veranda so as to ply him with questions. However, being Lady Sophie Lundell, she did precisely that.

Fully aware that Trevelin had moved to the right after exiting through the full length door, Lady Sophie took care to look straight ahead as she feigned with all of her might that she hadn’t the slightest idea he was present. However, once she had gained the stone parapet that divided the veranda from the enormous green lawns, matters came to a standstill. To her chagrin she realized she had counted, perhaps too much, on her beauty to draw him to her side. Of what use, she wondered, were a pair of snow-white shoulders, hair like polished ebony and eyes the color of spring grass if such charms failed to attract? As such, the deep sigh that issued forth from her lungs proved to be nearly sincere.

The second sigh produced a stirring to her right as a man-sized shadow separated from the wall of the house and moved towards her at the parapet.

“Oh!” she gasped, “I had thought myself quite alone.”

“Had you?” Trevelin said in so ominous a voice it gave Lady Sophie pause.

“I think I had best go inside,” she murmured in an appropriately quavering voice. Privately, she noted that she had become so accomplished a liar that she half believed in her own charade. However, when she turned away, he reached out and grasped her by the forearm to forestall her going.

“What is your name?” he demanded as he looked down his nose at her from eyes hooded, yet perilously alert.

Lady Sophie hadn’t the slightest desire to ascertain whether or not he sneered at her, as well, but she could not prevent her gaze from straying to his lips. Even in the dark of the night, it was clear that one end of his mouth was drawn down in a frown, the other drawn up like a perpetually skeptical eyebrow. With nary a thought for the consequences, she wrenched free her arm, took hold of one of the garden lanterns and brought it to his face. It gave her a superior view of the scar that marred his mouth
while it illuminated the sweep of rich, dark hair that curled along his forehead and brought fire to the ice-blue eyes. She was tempted to spin on her heel and walk away, but she knew she would acquire no answers without capitulation. “Sir, I am Lady Sophie Lundell,” she announced as she placed the lantern on the wall between them. “Perhaps you are acquainted with my father, Viscount Vane?”

Unaccountably, he seemed to relax at her words as he turned his back to the parapet and rested his elbows along it in repose. “Ah! Then I should think you have been properly warned against me.”

“To be sure.” She lowered her glance so that her eyelashes hid the curiosity certain to be seen in her eyes. “Only, I suspect my father’s prejudice towards you to be monstrously unfair.”

His air of complacency melted away at this speech, and he turned abruptly away to stare out at the lawn dotted with ancient trees that reached into the sky to form a canopy of branches through which the moonlight fell in fits and starts. “You do,” he stated in tones that wavered between doubt and, to her astonishment, hope.

“Yes, indeed. My father is a great embroiderer of the truth. I never believe more than half of all he says.”

“I see,” he said, yet he seemed to see nothing at all as he continued to stare out beyond the trees. She minded not at all as it gave her time to peruse his profile, one free of any scar whatsoever and possessed of a strong jaw, a perfect nose, and cheekbones any woman should envy, against which his dark hair was swept forward to mingle with his sideburns. In point of fact, he was most attractive, and she felt the scar to be regrettable. She was so absorbed with the thought that she barely noticed when he slipped an object from someplace about his person and held it up so that it winked in the light of the lantern.

“You had best go inside, Lady Sophie Lundell.”

Lady Sophie did not want to go inside. She wanted to find out what he held in his hand, how he came about that scar and why he was considered so villainous that her father should warn her to keep her distance. It was with great deliberation that she moved nearer and asked, “What is that?”

He glanced at her in some consternation as if he had thought her already gone. “It’s a ring.”

“I can see that is so, but why do you look at it with such longing?” She hoped the question might prompt a romantic tale of lost or, better yet, unrequited love.

He turned to face her, his lids riding low over his eyes and his sneer as intentional as his words. “Are you certain you wish to know?”

She perceived he expected her to change her mind, to falter and flee, but the knowledge merely stiffened her resolve. “Yes, I do believe so.”

He sighed and turned his back to the trees once again so that she was forced to observe his scar in much closer proximity than before. “It is a reminder.”

“May I ask of what?”

“No, but something tells me you shall, just the same.”

She thought she caught the beginnings of a genuine smile tug at his mouth but could not be certain in light of the scar that pulled the corner of his mouth, always upwards. The mere possibility made her smile, herself, at the thought, and she reached to take the ring from him for closer inspection.

“Tell me, of what does it remind you?”

He allowed her to take the ring with an air of surprise that she suspected had less to do with her boldness than his unanticipated surrender. “What else?”

“What? You cannot mean your injury. Surely you never forget it.”

“But, of course! I am not accosted by it but once or twice a day in the mirror. The ring, tucked into its place where I am always sure to feel it, reminds me of what others continually see whilst in my presence.”

Lady Sophie now had more questions than before. “But, where do you keep it hidden?

“Dear lady, you go too far!”

His indigence seemed to point towards a man with a far finer set of ethics and morals than she was taught to expect from Lord Trevelin. As such, her questions were mounting in number at an
alarming pace. Certainly he would not deign to stand on the veranda with her for the entire evening. She must formulate a question that would cut to the heart of the matter.

“Then answer me this,” she demanded, her heart racing in anticipation. “Why has my father painted you such a Bluebeard?”

He turned to face her as he leaned into the parapet, one forearm resting along it and the other poised to pluck his ring from her hand. “Surely you have heard tell the story?”

Sophie returned the heavy gold signet ring engraved with a monogram so elaborate as to be indecipherable in the near darkness, and uttered a sigh of exasperation. “Should I inquire if I had?”

“Your kind always do.”

“How can you make such an uncongenial remark? We have only just met.”

“True, but I am familiar with your sort.” He favored her with a look of challenge, then seemed to think better of it as his eyes dropped to the ring he held between his fingers.

“By that you mean that I am young and untried, accustomed to getting my own way and willing to go to great lengths to do so; that I have my father wrapped around my finger like a twine of silk, and attempt to position every man I meet the same.”

“Hmmm, yes, that would be the measure of it,” he said, then added a hesitant, “perhaps.”

“Then I am in some way different?” She suspected she was, though in what manner she did not know.

He drew a deep sigh and turned again to lean over the parapet and face the trees. “It would be best should you return to the party,” he said, placing the ring in the palm of his hand and squeezing it tight.

As she was thoroughly enjoying herself, she had no intention of doing any such thing. “Oh? And why is that?” she asked as she turned to rest her arms along the parapet alongside his.

“Because,” he said as if addressing one with the wits of a child, “it is not seemly for you to be seen with me.”

“Why ever not? You are a peer of the realm, and I am a viscount’s daughter. We have both been invited here tonight. We are doing no harm; we are simply conversing.”

His head dropped in what seemed to be resignation, and he drew himself up to face her once more. “Then you have
not
heard the tale.”

She turned to peer into his face, as well, and looked directly into his eyes so that he might see the truth in hers. “No, I have not.”

He gazed back at her for a moment, and she saw how his scrutiny touched her hair, her lips, her throat. Quickly, he placed the ring, large enough to fit over his evening glove, onto a finger of his left hand and clasped the knot of gold in the palm of his right. “Well then, Lady Sophie, if you wish to know, I shall tell you, but you must look away from me, or I shall not speak.”

“Are you afraid I shall think you hideous?” she asked, but he did not answer her that. As she spun about in obedience to his request, she felt her heart squeeze with compassion and determined to refrain from wounding him if she were able. “Then, let us survey the sky, and I shall hear your tale.”

“If only it
were
my tale,” he mused.

“Whatever do you mean?” she asked as she turned to look at him in curiosity.

“Pray, do not! You must mind your promise or I shall seek out your father. Do not doubt that he shall most certainly send you home.”

Lady Sophie could not imagine what harm might arise from studying his face whilst he spoke. Aside from the scar, it was a handsome face in spite of his saturnine expression. There was a hollow look about his eyes as well that stole the light from them. ‘T’was a great pity but, perhaps, pity was the very thing of which he wanted no part. “I do promise, my lord.”

“Very well, then, if you must have the tale, I shall give it you. It is not a very long one, and when it is over, you might return to the enjoyments of your first ball.”

“Why do you presume it to be my first?” She almost turned to him in astonishment but recalled just in time that she must not.

“All unmarried young ladies adorned in silver spangles and eyes of dew are enjoying their first ball.”

She had hoped he would say something along the lines of: If you had been out of the schoolroom before now, I should have remembered that face, that hair, those eyes. But he did not. It was all very lowering.

“Then I was wrong to believe I am different.” He did not correct her, and she was taken aback at the pain the omission caused her as if hundreds of tiny needles pierced her heart. “Perhaps you are most correct, my lord,” she said quietly, “in that I should not be here with you. Mayhap I should find my father and have the whole of it from him; or from Lady Avery or Sir Anthony or anyone else present at the ball tonight.”

He grunted his concession. “You might as well have the story from my lips as any other’s. I only hoped to prolong the moment when you should walk away from me. I cannot force you to remain if, once I have told you all, you should wish to leave my side. Nevertheless, I pray you shall see fit to keep me company a while longer.”

She felt as if she were playing with fire but play with it she must. “Confess all and then shall I decide.”

“Very well. As I said, it is not a long tale.” He took a deep breath, removed the ring from his finger and placed it on the wall where he might keep it in his sight. “A decade past, I abducted a young girl for the purpose of forcing her to my will. Or so the story goes.”

Lady Sophie felt she should, at the very least, gasp. Though she felt his revelation was entirely wicked, she had expected a crime far less predictable and far more romantic. “That is rather dull. Or is there more? Did you hold her at gunpoint? Or perhaps you used a knife?”