Cut to the Quick (4 page)

Inside, the contrast was just as dramatic. Right-angled corridors gave way to sinuous curves. Intricately carved oak panels were replaced by pastel-painted walls, edged with chaste white mouldings. It was elegant, easeful, and in very good taste—and yet Philippa was right, it did seem a little insipid after what came before.

Philippa gave a little jump. “Oh, how horrid! There’s Miss Pritchard, and Hugh and Josie with her. Let’s run before they see us!” “They have seen us, I'm afraid.”

“Pritchie will give me such a scold for coming to see you!” She folded her hands and cast down her eyes demurely. “Good evening, Miss Pritchard.”

The governess was between thirty and forty, painfully thin, with a gaunt, bony little face and shortsighted eyes. She hurried forward to reclaim her charge. “Im terribly sorry, sir!” she twittered to Julian. “I had no idea where she’d gone!”

“Not at all. It was very obliging of her to show me the way to the drawing room. I expect I should have got lost without her.” Philippa tossed her head and smiled triumphantly at her sister. Joanna pouted charmingly. She was dark-haired, and much the prettier of the two. In a few years, she would be breaking hearts all over the West End.

“See here, Pippa,” said Hugh, “you’ve got nothing to look so smug about. Mr. Kestrel’s being very gracious about it, but all the same, you shouldn’t have been pestering him.”

“I wasn’t pestering him. I was being helpful. And you’re the one who made me want so much to meet him. You said he was the most tremendous beau, absolutely top of the tree!”

Hugh flushed scarlet. Julian’s eyes danced, but he had the grace to look away.

“Pippa, you’re embarrassing everyone!” Joanna hissed.

“I don’t see why—” Philippa was beginning. But Miss Pritchard hastily said good night and bundled her charges away.

“I'm sorry about that,” muttered Hugh. “I don't suppose you came to Bellegarde to be teased to death by my little sisters.”

“Oh, I don’t mind. I rather like making friends with women before they're old enough to be dangerous.”

*

The rest of the company was already assembled in the drawing room. Julian had met Sir Robert and Lady Fontclair when they greeted him upon his arrival. He was slightly acquainted with Colonel Fontclair, Sir Robert's brother, who belonged to one or two of his clubs. Sir Robert’s sister, Lady Tarleton, he knew by sight, though they had never been introduced. Mr. Craddock was a stranger to him, as were Maud Craddock and Isabelle Fontclair.

Isabelle must have been a few years older and at least six inches taller than Maud. She had the type of figure Julian most admired in women—statuesque, slender, and effortlessly graceful. Her voice was low-pitched, smooth, and mellow—very pleasing to Julian, who particularly noticed voices. But what struck him most about her was her serenity. Not many people could sit so still, and yet look so natural and relaxed.

Maud suffered by comparison. Her face was pale and pasty, and there were smudges of shadow under her eyes. She had a figure like a Dresden shepherdess’s—a tiny waist, with generous curves above and below. Her hair was of a light, streaky shade that was neither blond nor brown. Her nose was small and blunt, with a sprinkling of freckles. She did have striking eyes: large, wide-set, and of a vivid turquoise. But no one had a chance to see them to advantage. She seldom looked up from the floor, and then only long enough to whisper a reply when someone addressed her. Once, though, Julian caught her timidly searching his face. When he looked around at her, she started guiltily and dropped her gaze.

Colonel Fontclair sat by the drawing room fire, his right hand curled round the head of his walking stick. He needed the stick to get about, having been wounded in the leg some dozen years ago, while serving with the Duke of Wellington’s army in Spain. Julian had never seen him so subdued as he was tonight. London society knew him as a bon vivant—good-humoured and heedless, with a

fondness for very old wines and very young women He was handsome, like his son Guy, though his sedentary life and indulgence in food and wine were beginning to tell on him. His florid complexion and thickening waist disguised his resemblance to Sir Robert, who was tall, thin, and gaunt, and might serve as a very good model for Don Quixote in ten or twenty years.

Guy was not dining with them this evening. “You don’t mean to say he’s out again!” said Lady Tarleton.

“Well, you know, he has so many friends in the neighbourhood,’’ said Lady Fontclair. “And as he’s not here very often, naturally he likes to visit them when he has the chance.”

“You know as well as I do, he’s not paying civilized calls round the neighbourhood! He’s gone carousing in the village, as usual, getting up to Heaven knows what mischief and bringing down ridicule on all of us. How are we to maintain our dignity, when Guy is forever lowering himself to the level of common artisans and labouring men? Though I don’t know why I should care anymore— our position is already all but compromised beyond repair!” She threw a scornful glance at the Craddocks.

“Guy is just high-spirited,” said Lady Fontclair. “I’m sure he doesn’t mean any harm. But if you like, I’ll ask him to dine at home tomorrow. Will that content you?”

“Content me! As though anything could content me, as long as—! Well, I suppose I shall have to make do with it.”

Lady Fontclair caught Julian’s eye and smiled ruefully, as though asking his pardon for Lady Tarleton’s tantrum and, at the same time, appealing to his sense of humour. He smiled back, thinking what a pretty woman she was—dark-haired and dainty, with velvety brown eyes. Her daughter Joanna looked very like her; Philippa had the long, thin face of the Fontclairs.

He was seated on her right hand at dinner. Knowing she lived in the country all year round, he was resigned to conversing mainly about her children and her garden. He soon found he had not done her justice. She had a wide variety of interests, the most surprising of which was medicine. “Dr. MacGregor’s been training me for some time now,” she said. “He’s our local physician—well, a surgeon, really, but we give him the title of ‘doctor’ all the same. I told him

I didn’t like the thought of there being a sudden illness or accident at Bellegarde, and no one here at hand who knew what to do about it. I asked him to teach me some simple treatments—how to take out splinters, stanch bleeding, bring down fevers—that sort of thing. He’s been so kind. He’s given me medical books, and taught me all about bandaging and—well, never mind the rest. It’s not especially suitable for dinnertable conversation! Anyway, I’ve learned to treat my family and servants for small ailments, though of course I consult Dr. MacGregor about anything that might be at all serious. You’ll meet him tomorrow; he always dines here on Fridays.”

“I shall look forward to that.”

“You’ll find him very crusty, I’m afraid, but we’re all extremely fond of him. Otherwise this is strictly a family party. I hope it won’t prove dull for you, coming from London at the height of the season.”

“Sometimes the height of the season, like other lofty elevations, is best viewed from a distance.”

She dimpled at him. “Mr. Kestrel, you are very charming.” Then, suddenly serious, she added, “I’m glad, very glad, to find that I like you. It’s so important what friends a man makes at Hugh’s age. Young men are so open to impressions—so easily influenced, especially by friends who are a little older and more worldly. I feel sure I can trust you—can’t I?—to think of Hugh’s good and remember how young he is.”

“Lady Fontclair, you have my promise never to mar what you’ve made of him.”

“My dear Mr. Kestrel. And you won’t tell him we had this conversation?”

“What conversation is that?” he said blankly.

They smiled at one another.

She turned to Craddock, who was seated on her other hand. Julian marked how her manner changed. She was scrupulously civil, but there was no warmth in her voice. “Are you going to the horse fair tomorrow, Mr. Craddock?**

“I wasn*t planning on it, no,*’ he said sharply. “It*s been some years since I took a professional interest in horses.”

Julian was surprised. Why should the mention of horses touch him on the raw? People said he came of lowly origins; perhaps he had been a horse dealer at one time. If so, had Lady Fontclair been purposely twitting him about it? That did not seem like her. If she meant to hurt a man, surely her attack would be private and direct, not public and insinuating.

Craddock, having made his displeasure felt, put it behind him, and began to talk tersely and sensibly about some local election. Give the man his due: He had courage, and a rough sort of dignity. Lady Tarleton’s disdain could not intimidate him, and neither could the too punctilious courtesy of Sir Robert and Lady Fontclair. If he could not always keep his temper, at all events he kept his selfrespect, and that was no mean achievement in an enemy camp like Bellegarde. The very servants were hostile to him; when they addressed him, they gave a slight, sarcastic emphasis to the “Mr." before his name, as though they thought it a bitter joke that they should have to treat him with respect.

Julian glanced down the table at Miss Craddock, who was seated next to Sir Robert. How was she bearing up under the veiled hostility around her? He caught her in an unguarded moment, when no one was talking to her. She was lost in her own thoughts, and her face expressed them as candidly as a child’s. She was desperately unhappy.

Damn, damn, damn! he thought. I refuse to get mixed up in all this. If she doesn’t want to marry Fontclair, it’s no business of mine. Why doesn’t she just cry off?

He looked across at Craddock. Was he the force behind the marriage? Because if he was, what chance did a meek eighteen-year-old girl have of standing up against a will like his?

After dinner, Julian hoped to get better acquainted with Isabelle Fontclair, but drawing-room company is apt to arrange itself in the most maddening patterns, and he found himself thrown together with Lady Tarleton instead. Her manner toward him was decidedly frosty. She was clearly vexed that he revealed so little about his family background. She dropped questions and insinuations, which he either parried or pretended not to understand. He had no intention of exposing his parents to her scrutiny. He was not ashamed of them, nor (as many of the Quality believed) did he relish making a mystery of his past. He just felt protective of the dead, who could not speak for themselves.

To distract her, he asked her about a painting that hung over the fireplace. It was a portrait of a man in medieval armour. He was clasping his helmet under one arm and holding up his sword, point downward, so that the jewelled hilt looked like a cross. His long brow and jaw plainly marked him as a Fontclair.

Lady Tarleton unbent a little. “That’s Sir Roland Fontclair, one of our most distinguished ancestors, and a hero of Agincourt. Of course, the portrait was done much later. My great-grandfather sat for it, wearing assorted pieces of armour from our family collection. But the sword is Sir Roland's own. No one ever used it after his death.”

She launched into a history of her family's military exploits. Fontclairs, it seemed, had fought gallantly at Hastings and Cr6cy, Blenheim and Saratoga. One Fontclair had championed the cause of Charles II so ardently that he was created a baronet upon the king’s restoration. Lady Tarleton knew all about them: their horses, their squires, their wounds, their decorations. She did not seem to care any longer to whom she was speaking. Her words spilled out faster and faster, her hands were uplifted, her eyes had a feverish gleam.

A chair scraped. Julian looked around and saw Colonel Fontclair moving toward the door as fast as his limp would allow. Was it Lady Tarleton s stories that had driven him away? She was certainly speaking loudly enough for him to hear every word from his seat nearby. Perhaps her glorification of warfare was exasperating to a man who knew what battle and bloodshed were really like. By all accounts, the Peninsular War had been a grueling campaign—atrocities committed daily, spies lurking everywhere, provisions constantly running short. A man who had been through that four-year ordeal might well find it hard to stomach Lady Tarleton s fairy-tale vision of military life. Especially if he were in a pensive mood to begin with, as Geoffrey seemed to be.

Lady Tarleton was too caught up in her storytelling to pay him any heed. Not so Lady Fontclair: she watched his departure with troubled eyes, and Julian was not surprised when, a little while later, she left the room herself. Going to look for the colonel, was Julian’s guess.

He realized too late that he had let his attention stray from Lady Tarleton. When she said, “Would you like to see it?” he had no idea what she was talking about. But he said, “Very much,” and left the drawing room with her, prepared to be shown almost anything.

*

They crossed from the new wing back to the main house—the Elizabethan core of Bellegarde. Candlelight from the hallway sconces gleamed along the gilded wood panelling and threw into relief the cornice mouldings of roses, oak leaves, and clusters of grapes. Lady Tarleton led Julian down a long corridor, past an anachronistic

billiard room and a small study, to a door at the end of the hallway. He opened it for her, and they went inside.

The room was full of weapons—swords, pistols, crossbows, maces. Many were cherished antiques, displayed in cabinets or hung on walls, but others were modern guns and knives that must be in everyday use. There was armour, too, for both men and horses, and pennons, powder flasks, and spurs.

Geoffrey Fontclair was sitting at a table in the center of the room. Lady Fontclair stood behind him, her arms around his shoulders. “It’s wicked and wrong,” she was saying to him gently. “Promise me you will never think of it again.”

Geoffrey caught sight of Lady Tarleton and Julian in the doorway. He started violently and clutched at the head of his walking stick. Lady Fontclair looked surprised, too, but seeing his confusion, she mastered her own. She laid her hands on his shoulders for a moment, and Julian could sense her steadying influence flowing to him through her fingers.