Dolph quailed. “Im-m-mediately?” he stammered.
“At once, my lord.” The footman allowed a hint of commiseration to creep into his voice.
“I’ll go with you,” said Frank, patting Dolph’s shoulder in a fatherly way. “He can’t have you shot at dawn, you know.”
Poor Dolph looked as if he placed no credence whatsoever in his cousin’s assurance.
“I shall come, too,” Constantia volunteered. Not that she had any desire to witness the duke in a rage, but he might moderate his tantrum if she were present. Unlikely, she had to admit, to judge by past performance. Nonetheless, raising her chin, she preceded the gentlemen to the drawing-room.
Oxshott surged to his feet with an inarticulate roar as Dolph followed her in. “What the devil do you mean by it, eh, you wastrel?”
“B-by what, Father?” Dolph sounded bewildered as well as terrified.
“By going off without so much as a by-your-leave, numskull! By gadding about when I had need of you. By...”
“Leave him alone, Father.” Lady Warrington’s drawl had a cutting edge. Quill in hand, she stalked towards them from the little writing table by the window, where a half-finished letter lay. “Dolph is of age. He does not need to beg your leave to spend a day with his cousin.”
“Of age! Your brother is a dolt, unfit to make his own decisions.”
“How do you know?” Lady Warrington snapped. “Have you ever allowed him to try? You are a tyrant, a brute, a savage!” With each epithet she stabbed at her father with the quill.
“Savage! I’ll show you savage, you beldam! The ducking-stool is too good for termagants like you.” His abuse descended to the foulest profanities.
His daughter gave as good as she got, though observing certain limits on her language. Constantia was shocked into immobility until Frank took her arm, jerked his head towards the door, and mouthed, “Off you go.” He appeared to be amused!
Constantia fled, her hands over her ears. Dolph did not need her feeble protection when he had his sister to champion him.
Lydia Warrington came to her chamber later. “I am prodigious sorry you witnessed our little disagreement,” she said calmly. “I have already told Cousin Fanny that I cannot stay any longer in the same house as my father, not even for Dolph’s sake. I shall leave in the morning.”
“Can he not go with you?”
“La, he is more afraid to leave than to stay. Be kind to the poor mooncalf. I hope to visit my cousins at a later date, when Father is not here. No doubt we shall meet again.”
“I hope so,” said Constantia, without much conviction, then repeated the words more firmly. “I do hope so.” Lady Warrington’s heart was in the right place, she believed, and whatever her shortcomings she was by far the best of the Ingrams’ relatives.
Departing, Lady Warrington turned as she reached the door. “Two words of advice, Lady Constantia, if you promise not to take them amiss. Pay my father no heed; and snap up Cousin Frank if you can. He is a jewel, I vow.”
She sauntered out. After a frozen moment staring after her, Constantia managed to smile and shake her head. The world was full of matchmakers. She must learn to ignore them--unless Miriam came to her aid.
With an effort she diverted her attention to wondering how soon the battle for Lady Warrington’s vacated bedchamber would erupt.
Nothing happened that evening, as Fanny had asked her cousin not to mention her plans. It was when Lady Warrington’s trunk was carried down to the hall and she bade her family farewell that the skirmishing started, in a form Constantia had not anticipated. No one actually wanted the small chamber. Lady Elvira and Lady Yates each wanted the other removed to it.
The battle raged fierce and hot; it raged but briefly, however. Frank, after consulting Fanny, had already directed Dolph’s valet to take possession for his master. He was installed and ready to take on all comers. Dolph did not mind in the least that the room was cramped and shabby.
“He’s just glad not to have Yates constantly sneering at him,” Frank explained to Constantia. “I couldn’t in all conscience leave the poor fellow in such misery. The others can stand up for themselves.”
“And Mr Yates is pleased to have the larger room to himself,” she congratulated him, “so you have pleased two out of the six, which I had not thought possible.”
“And the rest cannot complain quite as vociferously as they otherwise might because Dolph is, after all, the heir to the dukedom.”
The complaints were vociferous enough. Life remained a sea of trouble dotted with islands of crisis. Even the delivery, bit by bit, of the goods Constantia had ordered was spoiled by Lady Elvira’s endless, automatic criticism. This colour was too pale, that too bright; Wedgwood was vulgar, the truly elegant preferred Royal Worcester or Crown Derby; the style of Chippendale was vastly superior to the chosen Sheraton.
Frank’s outspoken delight in everything was some compensation to Fanny and Constantia for Lady Elvira’s disdain.
“All the same,” said Fanny to Constantia one evening as they ascended the stairs on their way to bed, “I’d not survive without my hour of peace with Anita every morning before anyone else is up. We go down to the kitchen for bread and butter first and then take a walk if it’s fine, or amuse ourselves indoors. It is sheer heaven to be free of carping and quarrelling for a little while. What use is a family that never has a kind word for one another?”
As she answered, Constantia happened to glance up at the gallery. The duke stood there in the shadow, staring at them. He must have overheard Fanny’s complaint about his family’s conduct, yet he looked more smug than incensed.
She shrugged away her puzzlement. Very little of Oxshott’s behaviour made any sense to her.
The following day, his grace decided his port and brandy, delivered several days earlier, had settled enough to be broached. The ladies had to wait considerably longer than usual for the gentlemen to join them after dinner. The duke led them into the drawing-room, carrying a decanter and a glass. Though none of the others was so burdened, they were all bright-eyed and a trifle flushed, even Felix and Frank.
“Are they inebriated?” Constantia whispered to Fanny in dismay.
“Heavens no, merely a little bosky. A cup of tea will soon put them to rights.” She rang the bell.
A startled yelp drew their attention to Lady Vincent. As pink-faced as her husband, she glared at him. She had evidently just been pinched, an aberration due to drink, no doubt, since Lord Vincent generally confined his familiarities to anyone but his wife, whatever her fears.
“Disgraceful!” she squeaked. “How dare...Shall not stand for...Retire at once...No tea...” And she flounced out, insofar as so meagre a figure was capable of flouncing.
Lord Vincent chortled and came to sit beside Fanny. Felix promptly removed her. Frank slid into the place next to Constantia, shielding her from the would-be roué.
The manoeuvre was so swiftly and neatly accomplished that Lord Vincent, slow on the uptake after several glasses, did not realize in time how he had been outwitted.
“Ouch!” said Frank, and rubbed his buttock.
Constantia clapped a hand to her mouth, too late to stifle a giggle. “A taste of your own medicine?” she enquired.
“My medicine!” he said in mock outrage, a gleam in his eye. “I’d have you know, Lady Constantia that I’ve never in my life thus assaulted a respectable female.”
“Nor did he, in this case.” She felt an alarming urge to ask whether he ever thus assaulted less-than-respectable females. Hastily she reminded herself that she was not the one who was--what had Fanny said?--a trifle bosky.
One of Frank’s new servants rescued her, bringing in the tea tray. He was still in his blue and red Horse Artillery uniform instead of livery. Nor had he yet mastered the art of footmanship despite Thomas’s drilling. Glancing at the corner to which Fanny and Felix had retired, he grinned and winked at Constantia. “Tha’lt pour, my lady?”
“Yes, Twistlethwaite, please set the tray here.”
“I particularly admire,” said Frank dreamily as the man left, “the way you say that name. Whistletwaith, Tithleswaite, Swizzleswith, Thistledown and Will-o’-the-withp.”
She frowned him down, her lips twitching. “An ancient Yorkshire name, he assures me.”
“No, what I really meant to say was, I admire the fact that you know his name. You may not have noticed, but Aunt Elvira, after favouring my sister with a curled lip, was about to demand the right to pour tea. Not having troubled to learn the footman’s name, she was stymied by the impropriety of calling out ‘You there!’ Or possibly ‘Hey you.’ Or ‘Here, fellow.’ Or ‘Come, my good man.’ Or...”
“I think you had better drink a cup of strong tea,” said Constantia severely.
Dolph came up, eager to be of service. Since his hand appeared steady, she sent him with cups of tea to the ladies, then poured one for the duke.
He waved it away, raising a half full glass of tawny port to her. “Your health, ma’am. There’s not much to be said for Godfrey, but he does know his wines.” His voice was slurred, his nose beginning to glow.
He kept Dolph by him, talking to him in a low, insistent voice, so Constantia let the rest of the gentlemen fetch their own tea. As the duke’s glass emptied, refilled, and emptied again, she noticed poor Dolph’s face growing longer and longer.
The rumble of Oxshott’s voice died away, returned briefly, then stopped. He slumped back in his chair--a new, solid, Sheraton one with a high back--and a rumbling snore took the place of speech.
The duke was still sound asleep when everyone else was ready to retire for the night. No one quite dared to wake him. Fanny had Twistlethwaite place a branch of fresh, lighted candles beside him, along with his unlit night-candle. Then they left him to his dreams.
Constantia read for a while, then snuffed her candle and fell into a light, uneasy sleep. In her dreams, Frank approached her, the gleam in his brown eyes beckoning her to unimaginable delights. The gleam became a flickering flame, a flaring firestorm, hiding then revealing his face, a crowd of frightened faces, burning beams, toppling towers...
She awoke in terror, her heart pounding, shaken by a horrid premonition. Suppose the duke burned down the house? He did not want it, only the land it stood on. He had no affection for his family. Would he care if they perished, along with Fanny and Frank...?
Fustian! she scolded herself. Oxshott was a wealthy man with or without Upfield Grange and Heathcote, a noble peer of the realm, a gentleman of high pride and dignity.
But she found herself feeling with her feet for her slippers, wrapping her new lavender-blue dressing-gown about her, stealing out into the dark passage.
Trailing her fingertips along the wall, she crept along towards the corner. A floorboard creaked loudly and she froze, but no one stirred. Down the three steps to the gallery, reach for the balustrade, move along it, with more confidence now, to the ball-topped post at the head of the stairs.
There she hesitated. All was still. No smell of smoke, no flicker of flame as she peered into the blackness below. How absurd the terrors that came upon one in the small hours of the morning! The sooner she returned to her chamber the better.
But there! A fitful light over towards the drawing-room, growing brighter...
And a heavy tread, heavy breathing, the dishevelled duke stumping into the hall, candle in hand. He was on his way to bed, of course. Or was he moving from room to room setting light to the curtains? She called herself a peagoose yet she lingered to make sure he came up the stairs.
His course meandered as he crossed the hall, but it brought him to the foot of the staircase. He stood there for a moment, candle held high, blinking doubtfully at the ascent as if about to tackle a mountain. Constantia watched him set foot on the bottom step, then turned away.
“Aaargh!”
At the cry, she swung round, to see Oxshott frantically flailing his arms in the air, tottering backwards. The candle flew from his hand and went out as he fell. In the darkness, a bellow of pain and fury drowned out the thud of his landing.
Clutching the handrail with one hand, holding up nightshift and dressing-gown with the other, Constantia sped down the stairs. She was half way down when a light appeared from the direction of Frank’s room. Dressed only in an ankle-length nightshirt, he ran into the hall, lamp in hand.
“Captain!”
Over the flood of vituperation now pouring from the duke’s mouth, Frank heard her call. He looked up, slowed his headlong pace, and held up the lamp. “Lady Constantia! What the deuce?”
Her way now lit, she let go of the railing and with both hands raising the hem of her hampering garments she hurried on down. She was nearly at the bottom when her feet flew out from under her.
Headfirst she hurtled down the last three steps.
Chapter 16
Frank caught her. Shaking, Constantia sagged against his chest, letting him support her.
The lamp had gone out when he dropped it in his leap to save her. Surely she imagined in the darkness his lips brushing across her forehead as he held her close. Her racing heart was due to shock, not to the strong arms enfolding her, the hard body pressed to hers. The overwhelming desire to throw her arms about his neck was a need to cling to something in her fright, not a disgracefully immodest longing to pull his head down and feel his mouth on hers.
Alarmed by the sensations coursing through her, she drew back. At once he released her, keeping one hand on her arm to steady her. She was uncertain whether she wished she could see his face or was glad she could not.
“Are you all right?” He had to raise his voice to be heard through Oxshott’s curses.
“I think so,” she quavered.
His fingers gripped her arm convulsively. “My God, I was afraid you’d break your neck.”
“So was I. It sounds as if your uncle has not broken his, either.”
“His vocal chords are certainly in good order. The first priority is light, methinks. There’s a tinder-box on the mantelpiece if I can find it.”