Wicked Company (60 page)

“Father will be there?” Roderick asked sharply.

“He returned from Bristol this morning,” Vaughn answered, as Sophie felt Roderick grow tense by her side. “He’s brought parts for my mechanical pump with him, I hope. I’ve had the lads fabricate most of this contraption I’m building in the foundry, but there are one or two items—”

“You’re
not
still tinkering with that fool pump!”

“I was just down in the shaft trying out a new notion I had before you came,” Vaughn said in an animated voice. “If we can syphon out more of the water that collects in the bottom of the shaft, ’twill be far easier for the lads. Less water, more coal. More coal, more money. ’Tis as simple as that. My mechanical pump is bound to make the miners more productive.”

“So they can die at an even earlier age, is that it?” Roderick said snidely, glancing down the road at the men who had begun disappearing into a bleak row of stone houses built into the hill.

“If you care so much about the miners,” Vaughn snapped, “why do you spend most of your time poncing around London, instead of working with me to try to improve their lot?”

Suddenly, the friendly atmosphere had completely evaporated, replaced by a contentious rivalry Sophie wagered had existed in the Darnly family ever since the brothers were small boys.

“Forgive us our internecine squabbles,” Roderick said, scowling at his brother. “I think it best to let Vaughn fend for himself. I promised the countess we’d be on time, for once.”

***

Sophie and Roderick entered the wide, grassy, square-sided area of the inner castle keep. It was now filled by hordes of guests eager to partake of the free cider, cockle soup, and rich Welsh cheese served in generous chunks on slices of coarse bread. Although the haying fete had been blessed with warm July sunshine, Sophie shivered in the shade of the gray stone round towers that loomed overhead. In her imagination, she could almost hear the screams of attacking soldiers in King Edward’s time, their chests pierced by flaming arrows or scalded by hot oil poured on them from the parapets soaring overhead.

“Can I serve you a whiskey, sir?” asked a voice behind them. “With the earl in attendance today, I imagine you’ll need it.”

Sophie turned to find the estate factor who looked after Evansmor, Trevor Bedloe, clutching a bottle of homemade spirits and two glasses.

“Sophie, would you like to try this witch’s brew?” Roderick asked, accepting Trevor’s offer. “’Tis a Welsh tradition to get as drunk as possible when one emerges from the mines, and this is the means to do it.”

“No thank you,” Sophie replied, watching Trevor pour his master a drink and then one for himself.

The trio sauntered over to one of the hulking round towers where a fiddler was flailing away. A hundred guests danced themselves into a frenzy on the broad expanse of green grass. Sophie’s breath caught in her throat as she spied an old man leaning against an ancient harp, gazing at the boisterous crowd with a weary air.

“T-the harper?” Sophie stammered, her thoughts thrust back instantly to the first day she met Hunter juggling to the accompaniment of the festive tune plucked by his late grandfather.

“Old Taf… he was harper to my mother’s father, and she forced Basil to grant him grace-and-favor status here before she agreed to marry. He can’t abide the old man… thinks he’s gone quite scatty, which I suppose he has, but Mother won’t hear of him being turned out. Though he forgets the simplest things, like whether he’s had supper or not, the man can still sing long ballads praising the valiant deeds of the ancient House of Evans. We Welsh put our bards only one rung below our kings.”

“Ah… so you consider yourself more Welsh than English?” She smiled, accepting his proffered piece of cheese.

“I expect I have more poet in me than coal baron, wouldn’t you agree, Trevor?” he asked his retainer as his eyes
scanned the huge crowd.

“Fortunately for you,” Trevor responded, his watchful gaze shifting from Sophie to his employer whom he’d known since they were children. “A second son is not expected to be serious about much of anything, is he? Allows one more time for pleasure, wouldn’t you say, sir?” he added with a wink that Sophie wasn’t sure was intended for her or Darnly himself.

“Or if he
is
serious, there’s always the heir to garner the accolades,” Roderick added dryly.

Despite his ironic smile, Darnly sounded bitter. But before she could press him further on the subject of his divided loyalties, a handsome woman in peasant attire, her gray hair flowing freely to her shoulders without combs or artifice, strode toward them with a determined look.

“Prepare yourself, Sophie,” Roderick warned under his breath. “You’re about to meet my mother, the incomparable Rowena.”

“Vaughn wagered me a new Welsh pony you’d never come, but I assured him you would,” Rowena pronounced before introductions could be made. “Have you tasted the cheese? Terribly good this year. I churned much of the milk myself.” She surveyed Sophie closely. “So you’re the playwright, are you?” she said. “’Tis about time my son brought someone to Wales besides those raucous London rakes who invade the hills every August to massacre grouse. Delighted you could join our midsummer fete, my dear.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “I had it put in my marriage contract, the brigand
had
to keep at least ten thousand acres in crops and not rape every inch of my father’s landscape. It pleases me enormously how very cross this haying celebration makes my husband each July, not to mention my wearing the clothes of a common laborer. Have you met Himself yet?”

Sophie attempted to collect her wits after this barrage of words and merely shook her head no.

“Well, keep her away from the man as long as you can,” the countess advised her son. Then she paused and her glance narrowed as she surveyed Roderick’s factor.

“Plying my son with whiskey, are you, Trevor?”

“He requested a glass, Countess,” Trevor replied, lowering his eyes to the bottle he still held in his hand. And Roderick, as if to deliberately provoke his mother, held out his empty glass for a refill.

“Well, see that you two behave yourselves in front of the guests for once!” she snapped as if she were talking to naughty eight-year-olds. She rested her glance on Sophie again and her eyes softened. “So happy you are staying at Evansmor. ’Tis lovely, isn’t it? I’d exchange this pile for that cottage in the grove like
that,
if I could,” she exclaimed, snapping her fingers for emphasis. “Roderick,” she said sternly. “Have you provided Miss McGann every comfort so she’ll stay through the autumn?”

“Yes, Mother,” Darnly said with a thin smile grazing his lips. “There’s absolutely no possibility she can escape back to London.”

***

As dusk stole across the keep, the pitch-soaked torches positioned in wrought-iron holders mounted on every wall and staircase cast a golden glow that softened the hard, sinister stones of Glynmorgan Castle. The music grew louder and more frenzied as additional fiddlers and harpers joined the fray in a kind of peasant orchestra, urging the tireless dancers, tanned and muscled from their summer of haying, to cavort under the full moon now rising above the pair of round towers to the east.

Trevor and Roderick had nearly finished the bottle of Welsh whiskey and were quite the worse for it. Vaughn sauntered over to where they sat on a stone staircase that spiraled to a rampart somewhere above their heads, silently observing the festivities taking place on the grass. His face was scrubbed of the coal dust that had coated it earlier, and Sophie was happy to welcome Darnly’s twin brother to their strange little group.

“Father wishes to meet your guest,” Vaughn said pleasantly. “Says he can’t endure the music another moment. You’ll find him in his study.”

Sophie’s heart began to thud and she looked at Roderick nervously, having absolutely no interest whatsoever in meeting his forbidding-sounding sire.

“Tell him,” Roderick said with an effort not to slur his words, “that I have no wish for her to meet him.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Roddy,” Vaughn responded. “Pray, stop performing your little dance. Basil’s pleased you have a presentable woman as your guest for a change, and one who’s clearly not a whore!” He shot an apologetic glance at Sophie. “Sorry, but that’s precisely what he said when I told him about you.”

“’Twas not your place to go tattling to him about my private affairs,” Roderick said, glowering at his brother.

“Well, your entire family will be pleased to learn it’s advanced to that stage,” Vaughn riposted.

“Bastard!” Roderick exploded, jumping to his feet and glaring at his twin.

“If only I
was,
eh, Roddy old boy?” Vaughn shot back.
“Your
being the first born might have smothered this poisonous envy of yours. ’Twas no fault of mine Mother produced an heir and a spare.”

Trevor Bedloe stepped between the brothers and put a restraining hand on Roderick’s arm.

“Come on, sir,” he urged, his voice thick from the effects of the alcohol, “a bit of food might be in order.”

“That’s right, Trevor,” Vaughn said with disgust. “Take care of his every need. That’s what you’ve always done, isn’t it, man?”

Sophie watched, astounded, as Roderick allowed himself to be lead away by his factor, leaving Vaughn and her standing amid the swirling dancers.

“How long will the fete last?” Sophie asked uncomfortably.

“Into the wee hours, I’m afraid,” Vaughn sighed, watching his brothers retreating back. “Shall I see you to Evansmor?”

“Thank you, but I don’t want to be a bother. I’ll just ask Roderick’s coachman to drive me back. Good night.”

***

Sophie swam to consciousness, aware someone was flinging pebbles at the cottage window above her desk. She peered through the gloom illumined only by the embers burning on the hearth. She was startled to see Roderick beckoning to her through the glass. Reluctantly, she removed Marmalade, asleep in a furry ball on the bed next to her feet. She padded across the floor, alarmed that both her inebriated host and Trevor Bedloe had apparently decided to end their night of debauchery on her doorstep.

But Roderick was alone.

“Please… Sophie… please… I must talk to you,” he pleaded through the window cracked open a few inches. His voice was that of a child, full of self-pity. After everything Sophie had ever known of the man, his tone, not his words, shocked her profoundly.

“Roderick, I think you’re very drunk, and since I remain married to Peter Lindsay, I know whereof I speak. Go back to the house. You’ll feel better in the morning. We can talk then if you like.”

“I’ll feel worse… much worse, after what happened tonight,” he mumbled. His hands reached out to grasp the windowsill, but the next moment, he slid to his knees. Sophie ran to the door, unlocked it, and raced around the corner of the cottage to find her host still in a praying position.

“Come on, then,” she said, slipping her hand under his right arm. Miraculously, Roderick was able to rise to his full height and stumble into the cottage, collapsing into one of the two leather chairs facing the high-mantled fireplace. “Would you like me to fix you some tea?” she asked sympathetically.

“No… but I would like you to tell me if you find me at all attractive?” he asked solemnly, and Sophie’s heart began to beat faster as she silently berated herself for inviting him to come inside the cottage.

He pulled out a flask from beneath his coat and took a long swig. Wiping his mouth in a surprisingly uncouth gesture, he peered at her perched on the other chair.

“I ask you this because my dear mother believes you were too intelligent to consider linking your life with mine, even before your marriage. For once, my father agrees… says you’ll soon guess that I—”

He stopped midsentence and suddenly covered his eyes with the hand not holding the flask of whiskey. To Sophie’s abject horror, his shoulders began to heave, and deep, anguished sobs tore from his chest. She flew out of her chair and knelt beside him.

“Roderick, whatever is the matter?” she asked compassionately. “What has made you feel so wretched?”

But he merely continued to weep and shake his head disconsolately. “Let’s get you to bed,” she urged firmly. “I’ll make a pallet for myself in front of the fire. Come, now, let me help you with your jacket.”

He allowed her to divest him of his coat and boots and staggered toward her rumpled four-poster. Just as she was about to pull up the counterpane to cover him, he caught her hand and hauled her roughly against his chest.

“I would have considered marrying you, my pretty little scribe… if you hadn’t been so foolish as to wed that bounder. From the first, I liked your small, boyish frame,” he said, clumsily running his hand down the front of her night dress. Sophie recoiled and tried to pull away from his grasp. “And I liked your intelligence and your cleverness with words… we could have made a go of it… at least enough to satisfy my bloody fam—”

“Roderick, please!” Sophie cried. “You’ll regret every word in the morning.”

“That’s why I’m so drunk, my dear. So I won’t remember… I can’t
bear
to remember when I—”