Dair Devil (12 page)

“Off? But… My lord! I understand that as your secretary I should do as you request… But as Lady Grasby’s
brother
, it is my duty to be present as her representative if you intend to discuss the inexcusable infractions that occurred at Mr. Romney’s house.”

Shrewsbury opened his eyes and focused on his secretary, who stubbornly remained seated behind his desk, and behind a cloud of smoke. He did not have to wonder where that had drifted in from, with the Major deliberately exhaling smoke from his cheroot over his right shoulder in Watkins’ direction. The lad was irredeemably mischievous, and Shrewsbury had to force himself not to smile.

“You may have such feelings, Mr. Watkins, but they are irrelevant. The day your sister married my grandson she became a Talbot and part of my family, and thus no longer your responsibility, whatever your strong brotherly feelings. But I have no objection to you seeking out Lady Grasby at this hour of the day. She may well be up and in need of your brotherly shoulder to cry on. No doubt there are plenty more tears to come,” he murmured to himself as Watkins quietly closed the door to the book room.

“Aside from almost ruining my grandson’s marriage,” Shrewsbury said, as he leant back in his chair and crossed his hands over his round belly in its silken waistcoat, “and that it could take an immaculate conception for my granddaughter-in-law to conceive, as she won’t have her husband within twenty feet of her person, what happened last night I couldn’t care less about, but for one important fact. It is this fact that compels me to seek your word of honor as a gentleman that you will, from this day forward, not reveal to anyone, in word or gesture, that you remember a single detail of what occurred within the walls of George Romney’s studio.”

Dair sat up, all attention.

“Sir, if it means that much to you, then yes, I readily give you my word as an officer and a gentleman. If you wish me to say I was drunk beyond cognition, then so be it. But may I know why? Why the secrecy and the need for me to forget? If Lady Grasby wishes to blame someone, then that someone should be me—”

“Oh, she blames you, all right! And I do not blame
her
for that! You made a mockery of her husband, and in turn her marriage, and before witnesses. She is a prideful, vain creature and may never recover from the humiliation. She certainly will never forgive you. That does not bother me in the slightest. That you have forgotten the details of the entire evening will go a long way in appeasing her self-esteem. She may yet be able to look you in the eye with her head held high upon your return from Lisbon. An absence of some four or five weeks should also soothe Grasby’s anger with you.”

“For getting him drunk? I admit I cut his breechcloth a tad too short—”

Shrewsbury waved a dismissive hand.

“I wish I’d been there to see your play-acting for myself. I have no doubts Grasby enjoyed himself immensely, until he realized his wife and her brother had become part of the audience. A most unfortunate happenstance. But that’s not what angered Grasby, or why I extracted your promise. Lady Grasby and Mr. Watkins were accompanied to the studio by my granddaughter, Grasby’s younger sister. As to what she saw, and how much, I have yet to find out…”

Dair’s expression of polite interest to this piece of news told Shrewsbury everything he needed to know. Somewhere in the deep recesses of the Major’s mind there was possibly a dim awareness that his best friend had a sister. Given time, he might even be able to recall in his mind’s eye a picture of her as a child, when he had occasionally come to stay between school terms. That he had no idea as to her age, and would not be able to point her out if ten young ladies of good family were lined up for his inspection, did not surprise Shrewsbury. In the Major’s world, Aurora Christina Talbot did not exist. And why should she?

They would have been introduced at some stage when Rory left the schoolroom. They came from the same wider social circle, and their more intimate circle of friends and relations would have intersected from time to time when attending polite society engagements. This social interaction would have increased over the past six months since the Major resigned his commission from the army.

The most recent of these was the Roxton Easter weekend at the Duke’s Hampshire estate. He was so grateful to Deborah Roxton for including Rory in the small parties made up of people her own age when they played at charades, picnicked by the lake, attended evening music recitals, and danced at the gala ball. The dance floor was where most social interaction between eligible young men and women occurred; a chance to look each other over without a chaperone breathing down the back of a girl’s neck.

Rory could not dance. But Deborah Roxton sat Rory close by her, so she had an excellent vantage point to watch the dancing, and by association, guests saw that his granddaughter was a favored guest. And to those doyens of Polite Society who put great value on such things, those who wondered at Rory’s place within it were politely reminded that as well as being the granddaughter of the Earl of Shrewsbury, Miss Talbot was the goddaughter of the old Duke of Roxton and his widowed duchess, Antonia Roxton.

There were occasions when unsuspecting guests wondered aloud why such a pretty little thing was not married, and needed no answer when Rory rose to her feet with the aid of her stick. The look of abject embarrassment, often pity, that crossed these same puzzled powdered faces when his granddaughter limped off—she transformed in their eyes into a wholly different and undesirable being because of her uneven gait—made him want to pummel to dust each and every one of them.

But what broke his heart, what never failed to bring tears to his eyes, was the never-ending sparkle in her blue eyes, blue eyes just like his, of wonder and excitement for the world around her. This was never more evident than when she watched the country dancing, cheeks flushed with the joy of living. It was as if she were out there upon the dance floor, taking every step with the dancing couples. He would have given anything and everything to be able to make that happen for her…

“Sir…? My lord? Lord Shrewsbury?”

It was Dair, on his feet, at Shrewsbury’s desk. The old man looked to have taken ill suddenly, such was the paleness to his cheeks and the glassiness to his eyes. But just as quickly, he snapped to his old self and waved Dair away. The Major retreated to his armchair, carefully stubbing the half-smoked cheroot on a small silver tray at his elbow, giving the old man time to completely recover his equilibrium.

“I want my granddaughter to forget last night ever happened,” Shrewsbury snapped without preamble. His inability to offer Rory a cure for her physical infirmity made him feel frustratingly inadequate. “I pray that in time it will become nothing more than a distant nightmare. And it must have been a nightmare—a bloody nightmare—for a carefully nurtured female who has never stepped outside this house without a chaperone, and has never been left alone in the company of a man who is not her brother or her grandfather, ever. She is unmarried and likely to stay that way after witnessing your disgusting and unsavory behavior!”

“I beg your pardon, sir?” Dair asked with civility, racking his brain to make sense of the old man’s emotionally charged rant, when not ten minutes earlier he had been having a chuckle about the whole episode. Nor did he know of any female present at Romney’s studio, other than the uninvited Lady Grasby, who fit the description of carefully nurtured, and she was married to his best friend. “Aside from Lady Grasby, who was an unintended witness to our—um—shenanigans, there was no other female that—”

“Goddammit Fitzstuart! My granddaughter was witness to the whole sordid episode! And from what Lady Grasby has been weeping into her pillow, it sounds as if she and my granddaughter were subjected to a scene ripped straight from the pages of a bacchanalian orgy!”

He shoved at the papers in front of him, as if wanting to distance himself from the event and the Major, and did his best to bring his temper and his tone under control.

“Getting your tackle out for the admiration of sylph-like whores and their ilk, I could care less about. How many you rut and how often is your business, and I say good luck to you! You play a dangerous game for your country, and the stakes are impossibly high, so you deserve to play equally as hard. But… There are times—
this time
—when such behavior goes beyond the pale. My granddaughter, Grasby’s little sister, is an innocent. She was there, damn you!”

“I understand, sir. You don’t have to tell me twice,” Dair said in a rush, feeling uncomfortably warm under his stock. He sat forward in the armchair. “You can’t think I would have carried on the way I did, would have allowed Grasby to compromise himself, if I’d had an inkling that she—that the sister of my best friend—would be a witness? My word on it, sir!”

Shrewsbury nodded, calmer, hearing the sincerity in the man’s voice. “I suppose not… You were not to know… It’s just that her presence, it alters the entire episode, doesn’t it?” He cocked an eyebrow. “I wonder if you would have acted any differently knowing Lady Grasby and Mr. Watkins were part of your audience?”

Dair could not hide his grin.

“I did know, sir.”

This elicited a reluctant laugh from the old man.

“Almost makes me wish I’d been a flea in Watkins’ wig, just to see her ladyship’s face. Now
that
is between you and me and no other.” He pushed back his chair and Dair got to his feet. “So when next you see my granddaughter, you will act as if last night never occurred; feign complete ignorance. She will be comfortable then—we all will.” He came around the desk. “And that goes for Grasby and anyone else who mentions Romney’s studio, or asks a question. You were too drunk and have no recollection of events. You’re a good actor. If anyone can convince my grandchildren, you can.”

“And Watkins? What about him?”

“Mr. Watkins will do as he is told. And he knows what’s at stake. He wants his sister to give the earldom of Shrewsbury an heir as much as I do. It will cement his place in the family. Better to be thought of as uncle to an earl than remembered as the grandson of a Billingsgate fishmonger.” When Dair snorted his skepticism, Shrewsbury smiled. “All very well for you not to care, you’ve got royal Stuart blood in your veins, not estuary water like the Watkins. Now put on a good show and you’ll be believed. My granddaughter, for all her youth and inexperience, has a keen mind and an even keener eye; comes from all that sitting about observing people. She’ll see through the façade if you don’t make yourself believe it, too.” He put out his hand to Dair. “I’m relying on you, my boy.”

“You can, sir,” Dair replied, taking the old man’s hand in a firm grip. He was still trying to put a face and a name together for Grasby’s sister and coming up blank. Ultimately, that was unimportant. He had given his word, and to Shrewsbury, the last man in this world he would ever want to disappoint. “I won’t let you down. My word on it.”

Shrewsbury smiled, mind at ease. “I know you won’t. You haven’t yet. Thank you. Now let me have a pitcher of ale fetched, and we’ll drink it on the terrace and take a walk in the garden. Fresh air helps clear the mind, and to focus it. There’s still much I need to tell you before you set sail for Lisbon—”

“Grand! Grand? The most wonderful thing has happened! Crawford was the first to make the discovery! It’s just like the one in the book. Oh, you must come to the Pinery and see it for yourself! Oh! Do-do forgive me. I thought you were alone. Crawford said your guests had gone…”

“Rory. Come in! Come in, my dear!” Shrewsbury coaxed as his granddaughter took a step backward, to retreat from the room. “I know you’ve been introduced before today, but I shall do the honors again, because introductions at a function, where there is always a crush of persons filling up a drawing room, is no introduction at all, really, is it? This is Major Lord Fitzstuart, your godmother’s cousin; Grasby’s friend Dair from his Harrow days. Major, this is my granddaughter, Aurora Talbot.”

The only sound in the room was the thud of Rory’s book hitting the floor.

E
IGHT

S 
PEECHLESS
, Rory watched Dair slowly retrieve her book. Her eyes did not leave him for a moment. He went to his haunches to collect
A General Treatise of Husbandry and Gardening by Richard Bradley
, then straightened to his full height, leaving her eyes level with the engraved silver buttons on his black linen frock coat. For some inexplicable reason, fully clothed he looked taller and much wider. He completely blocked her view of her grandfather’s desk.

He made her a slight bow of acquaintance, murmured a platitude that the pleasure was all his, and held out the book; and all this without making eye contact. She was so happy to see him again that the coldness in his manner and tone did not immediately register. She was also too preoccupied with wondering if he would notice she was not wearing panniers with her petticoats, something she avoided when at home, and if there was dirt smudged on her cheek. She had remembered to remove her gardening gloves, so her hands were clean, but her flimsy white apron over her white muslin gown (not the most practical of colors to go trowelling in amongst the compost) was also smudged with dirt. She had not meant to go to the Pinery after nuncheon, because she had to ready herself for the excursion to the theater. But the gardener had sent word of the most marvelous news, of an emerging pineapple flower, and so she just had to see it for herself there and then.

When her grandfather gently reminded her to take her book, that the Major was still holding it, she was suddenly shy at forgetting her manners. She realized, too, that she was rudely staring fixedly at the front of his broad chest and had not looked up at his face. Yet, when she went to take her book she noticed the state of his thumb. The skin was ragged and bloody at the knuckle. Her concern for his well-being far outweighed her embarrassment and uncertainty. Without permission, she gently turned over his right hand and saw that the rest of his knuckles were similarly raw, and there was bruising, too. She was sure his fingers were swollen. What she failed to notice was that the moment she touched his bruised flesh, he reacted, his grip on Bradley’s treatise tightening, so much so that she could not have pried the book out from between his fingers had she used both hands and all her force to do so.