A Stroke of Luck (16 page)

A different graveled path led through a trellised rose garden and back to the french doors of the stone terrace. Choosing it as the most direct route back to her room, Zara moved off with a heavy step, the low crunching of the stone echoing her own inner mutterings over having to go through with the odious obligation. As she passed by an open casement of high, mullioned windows, a loud remonstrance recalled her from such silent musings.

"Take your grubby fingers off that, brat!"

It was the voice of Harold, his harsh tone sounding an angry note.

"I—I was just—"

"Sticking it inside your filthy jacket?" finished the gentleman with a rough sneer. "No doubt you hoped you might pawn it for a pretty sum."

"I am not a thief, sir!" The accusation caused her younger brother's voice to quiver in indignation.

Zara pushed through the rhododendrons and lifted her eyes above the stone ledge. The scene inside the library might have been comical had she been in any mood to laugh. The gentleman, his beet red face adding yet another splotch of color to his appearance, had hold of Perry's collar, but his fist spasmed open as the spine of the book in question jabbed hard into the embroidered roses of his waistcoat. A low
whoof
of air rushed out as Harold fell back a step.

"And I'll have you know there is not a speck of grime on my hands or my clothing," continued the lad hotly. "I wasn't causing any sort of harm. I was merely reading."

Harold's eyes flicked down to the cover of the book and then up again. By that time, he had recovered enough of his breath to jeer. "In Greek? What fustian! You are a liar as well as a light-fingered urchin. Now put that down, before I send one of the servants to fetch the magistrate."

Zara was just about to jump to the defense of her sibling when she found herself beaten to the punch.

"What seems to be the trouble?"

Although the speaker was out of view, she had no trouble identifying the duke's deep baritone.

"I found this urchin sneaking about in here, with a valuable book in hand," replied Harold. "Which, no doubt, he was about to slip inside his jacket."

"Indeed?" Prestwick's boots beat a slow tattoo across the parquet floor. "And what makes you think he wanted to steal
The Frogs
?"

"Frogs!" croaked Harold. "Where? Has the impertinent brat brought a pocketful of the slimy creatures into the house?" He gave a little hop. "Help me haul him out of here, Twick! I don't give a fig if he wishes to poach my polliwogs, but I will not stand for the purloining of my valuables."

Perry fixed him with a look of withering contempt. "His Grace was referring to the title of the book."

Harold's face went blank.

"Aristophanes," murmured the duke.

As the gentleman's mouth parted in confusion, Zara was struck by the uncanny resemblance to a fish.

"Lud, what an idiot," said Perry under his breath.

She though she saw a grin tweak up at the corners of Prestwick's mouth before he resumed a neutral countenance. "Really, Harold, there is no need to wax melodramatic over a Greek comedy. I told the lad he was welcome to sit here and read. He wasn't causing any harm—"

"What do you call that!" demanded his cousin, his finger pointing at the torn volume lying upon the carpet. "The guilty party should have his backside soundly birched for such an act of wanton destruction."

"Yes, it was rather careless of me to drop it."

Harold turned a bit green around the gills.

"But I shall exercise my ducal prerogative in deciding not to bare my buttocks to your wielding of the rod, if you don't mind."

"I didn't mean, er, that is..." Seeing his accusation had gone dangerously awry, Harold sucked in his breath and retreated to a more jovial tone. "Of course not. Just making a little joke."

"Good. Then I shall also assume you have no objection to my granting young Perseus permission to make use of the library whenever he wishes." The duke made a slight adjustment to the angle of his watchfob. "After all, I am sure I need not remind you that for now, Master Greeley's brother has just as much claim to these... valuables as you."
 

Harold looked as though he would like to rip up at something, too, but merely inclined a stiff nod.

"You may return to your reading later, Perry. Right now, I would like you to come along with me."

Zara watched her brother follow along at Prestwick's heels like an eager puppy, then turned and slipped away from the window ledge, her emotions even more confused than before.

Hell's Bells!
It was bad enough to feel an unwilling physical attraction to the dratted man without finding herself in danger of actually liking him!

Chapter 9

He had thought things could not get much worse, but apparently he had been wrong. Fisting the sheet of scented ivory paper into a tight ball, Prestwick chucked it into the flames and reached for the decanter of brandy.

"Lady Farrington driving you to strong drink?" Shouldering his way through the closed door without the benefit of a knock, Stump moved over to the hearth and added another log to the fire. "Can't say I blame you. That old battle ax can chop anyone's sanity into mincemeat within thirty seconds. Then there is her lapdog of a grandson, waitin' to chew on the scraps."

Prestwick grunted and filled his glass nearly to the brim. "It is not merely my great aunt and Harold who are cutting up my peace of mind."

"Ye didn't enjoy your excursion into town with Miss Greeley and the lads?" asked the valet with an air of great innocence.

"Stubble the jokes," growled the duke. "You do not have a subtle touch when it comes to humor."

"Aye, a bit heavy-handed in most things," agreed Stump, turning his back to the fire to hide a broad grin. "Would you be wanting anything else? A bottle of port? A magnum of champagne? A barrel of Bruichladdich?"

"A pot of hemlock," he muttered, draining the brandy in one gulp.

"Aw, it can't be that bad."

"Ha!" Prestwick stared glumly at the curling wisps of ashes. "I just received word that Lady Catherine Ellesmore and her father arrived today at their country estate. Along with a houseful of guests."

The valet took up the poker and began to stir the coals. "I would have thought the news would be cause for celebration."

Prestwick frowned, feeling the furrows on his forehead dig deeper. It was true. He should be looking forward to the company of the lovely young lady who, with her polished manners and perfect behavior, never caused so much as a spark of exasperation to flare up in his breast.

So why had sight of the elegant script and the Ellesmore crest left him feeling rather cold?

Hurriedly pouring another drink, he raised the glass to his lips and let the fiery spirits burn a path down his throat. Would that the trail of his own feelings were as easy to discern. Of late, they had been straying off in the oddest manner, causing his mood to rise and fall as if he were still being buffeted by a stormy sea. It was most unfathomable—he was normally steady as a rock, impervious to any of the waves of raw emotion that he saw roiling around him.

Passion was all very well in the score of a symphony or the brushstrokes of painting. He admired such heated intensity in music and art, but he preferred that it remained confined to paper or canvas. When it threatened to engulf his own senses, whether in a burst of hot anger or a swell of light laughter, it was... rather uncomfortable.

And perhaps rather frightening.

Coward!
he jeered at himself. There it was again, the dreaded word, snaking up in an ugly curve, ready to sink its fangs into him. No matter how he twisted or turned, there seemed to be no eluding its reach.

The damnable problem was, he was not quite sure just what it was he was afraid of.

None of his ramblings were making much sense, he thought as the potent brandy began to fuzz further attempts to find his way to solid ground. Though he wished he might blame the spirits for his own tipsy meanderings, he knew the answer was not quite so simple.

Feeling rather lost, he thumped the empty glass down upon the walnut sideboard and slouched down into one of his late uncle's overstuffed leather armchairs with an audible sigh.

Stump paused in his efforts to stir up a flame and cocked his head. "Is there some other reason you're looking as blue-deviled as Lucifer with a pitchfork stuck in his arse?"

Prestwick mumbled something unintelligible, at a loss for any coherent answer. Dropping his gaze, he fell to picking at the intricate embroidery of his waistcoat, as if, like the Greek hero Theseus, he might find a thread to lead him out of the labyrinth of his strange mood.

After several moments, his fingers stilled on one of the pale yellow medallions. In the glow of the fire, its color took on a faint reddish cast, reminding him of the highlights in a certain young lady's hair. The duke stared, then frowned and jerked his hand away.

Hell and damnation!
He must be slipping down the slope of insanity to be brooding over the hot-tempered Miss Greeley when the sweet-natured Lady Catherine was close by!

Throughout the afternoon, the feisty chit had made her dislike of him clear, keeping her eyes averted from his person and avoiding all but the most cursory of conversation. Somehow, between the cheerful chatter of the two lads and hurried whirl of picking out fabrics, styles and colors, they had managed to get through the rounds of shopping without any overt hostilities. Still, the experience had left him feeling rather wounded.

He should not care a whit what she thought of him. It was, after all, apparent that she had no great opinion of gentlemen in general. Yet it nettled him to be lumped in with all the other unscrupulous cads and selfish prigs she had encountered during her journeys. For some reason he could not quite put into words, he wished for her to acknowledge that he was not like them. More than that, he wanted her to admit that a chord had been struck between them on the island of Islay and the resonance, however faint, was still there between them.

Raking his hand through his hair, he swore under his breath.

Stump nearly dropped the poker. "That ain't exactly a phrase from one of your scholarly tomes."

"I daresay I am not feeling overly intelligent right now." Prestwick grimaced. "Indeed, I am feeling like a bloody fool."

Stump was smart enough to refrain from comment.

"Go on and take yourself off to bed." He leaned back and closed his eyes. "I believe I shall remain here for a while longer."

Remaining tactfully silent, the valet lit the brace of candles on the sidetable and quietly slipped from the room.

The duke sat without stirring for some time. Then, moved by a sudden restlessness of spirit, he rose and went to the pianoforte. His fingers, mere shadows in the flicker of the flames, began to play over the ebony and ivory keys.

Black and white.
If only life were so clearly defined, he mused as the soft notes of the Beethoven sonata drifted up from the instrument. Rather than being composed of infinite shades of gray.

The candles had melted down to stubs and the coals had long since lost their glow before Prestwick left a last note lingering in the darkened room and made his way upstairs.

* * *

"How very nice." Lady Farrington eyed the crested note as a tabby would a bowl of cream. "Of course, it is only to be expected that the marquess would include the two of us in an invitation to dine at Ellesmore Manor." She lowered her lorgnette and passed the card on to her grandson with an arch smile. "You must be sure to wear your new chartreuse swallowtail coat, along with the floral waistcoat and buff breeches, Harold. You shall appear very stylish."

Assuming tropical parrots were in style this Season,
thought Zara as she swallowed the last sip of her tea.

"Lady Hylton assured me in her last letter that the combination is all the rage in Town," finished Lady Farrington. "And I shall choose my mauve watered silk with the overskirt of spangled silver."

The thought of such a palette was enough to make Monsieur Henri's turnip puree to take on the taste of boiled turpentine.