Secrets of Midnight (29 page)

"I'm fine, Sir Randolph, truly," she
murmured, noting how the crystal decanter was shaking as he tried to pour
brandy into a glass. "If you'd like, I could help . . ."

"No, no, I have it. Drank too much of the stuff
today, I fear, but" —he glanced toward his wife, lowering his voice— "not
a word to Olympia now, Corie, are we agreed? A man has to have some pleasure—"

"Randolph!"

Corisande winced again as the decanter hit the glass
with a ring and Sir Randolph cursed under his breath.

"Good heavens, man, what could be taking you so
long? I said a brandy for our guest—oh,
dear,
you must
forgive him, Lord Donovan. Welles, our butler, is seeing to the dinner—"

"It's no matter," Donovan said tersely, doing
his utmost to remain civil. But it was becoming quite difficult, especially
when Lady Somerset leaned toward him conspiratorially, the woman's massive
breasts brushing against his coat as she clucked her tongue in sympathy.

"Such a trying week you must have had since your
wedding, my lord. A new bride, and one so . . . well, how shall I put it? One
so
unaccustomed
to the way of things.
That's why I withheld my invitation until now. So Corisande might adjust, of
course."

"Adjust, madam?" Having a good idea as to
exactly what the woman was implying
,
Donovan took a
step backward only to have Lady Somerset draw closer, her voice dropped almost
to a whisper.

"Oh, yes, indeed. She must have had a terrible
shock, poor dear, but surely by now she's cast aside any romantic illusions and
come to understand that many members of our class must marry to secure their
family's lineage or fortune. I truly feel for you, my lord. To be hastened into
a marriage—having to choose a bride so quickly. It's a pity, truly, that my
husband's daughter, Lindsay, wasn't here. She's quite aware of her
responsibilities, oh, yes, indeed, I saw to her education on that score myself.
I'm sure you would have had a much easier time—"

"I already have a wife, Lady Somerset, and so far
I'm quite content, thank you," Donovan cut in, thinking with regret that
Corisande had been right about gossip flying through the parish. He wanted to
say more—hell and damnation, having her discussed so callously by this woman
was infuriating!—but here Sir Randolph came with his brandy . . .

"Sorry about that, old man. Damned glass cracked,
had to fill another."

Donovan gave an unconcerned shrug, tempted to tell the
poor bastard that he would have cracked a glass, too, if he had someone of
Olympia Somerset's ilk bellowing at him across a room. He took a drink, his
gaze meeting Corisande's. She looked entirely reluctant to join them, miserable
even as she stood all alone near the fireplace, and he didn't blame her.
Dammit, he should never have brought her here, with Lady Somerset rudely
snubbing her from the moment they'd walked in the door. There had to be
something he could do to make her feel better.

"I hope the brandy is to your liking, my lord. Oh,
splendid, here's Welles now. Shall we adjourn to dinner?"

"Actually, madam, the brandy tastes a bit off to
me."

Donovan heard a horrified gasp, which was exactly what
he had hoped. Lady Somerset looked quite stricken as she glanced at his glass. "
Off
, my lord?"

"Yes, not quite what I'm accustomed to." He
set the glass down with a decided thunk of distaste, pleased to see, too, the
astonished look on Corisande's face. "It's dreadful, really, but don't
trouble yourself. The barrel could have been bad."

"Bad—oh, my, no, surely not. Welles? Didn't you
procure the brandy just this morning? You told me the fellow said it was the
very best!"

"Yes, my lady, so he did, so he did," the
red-faced butler, as round and squat as a barrel himself, hastened to assure
her while Corisande chewed her lower lip, wondering if the brandy might have
been from Oliver Trelawny's shipment last night. Oh, Lord, she hoped not . . .

"I thought it tasted fine," Sir Randolph said
to no one in particular. Lady Somerset turned round to glare at him.

"Then it couldn't have been fine because you're
certainly no connoisseur!"

"I said it was no matter." Donovan's bored
voice rose above the storm while Corisande looked at him in amazement, never
having heard him use such a snooty, aristocratic tone. "Didn't you say
something about dinner, madam?"

Lady Somerset spun to face him, her double chin
bouncing. "Why, yes, yes, I believe everything is ready. Welles?"

"Ready, my lady, yes, everything's ready,"
the butler assured her, rushing forward to lead the way.

"Splendid, then, I'm famished," Donovan
announced. "If I may escort you, madam, to the dining room? Sir Randolph,
I'll entrust my wife to you."

Corisande had never seen Lady Somerset so flustered as
the woman took Donovan's arm and left the room with him, never seen Lady
Somerset nonplussed ever before for that matter, and she was immensely enjoying
the spectacle. It seemed Sir Randolph was enjoying himself, too, a bemused grin
on his face as he offered Corisande his arm. But she waved for him to wait a
moment while she went to the small table where Donovan had left his brandy,
glancing over her shoulder to make sure he and Olympia weren't waiting for them
in the entry hall before she lifted the glass and took a healthy sip.

"Well? Is it off?"

Relief poured through Corisande as the brandy snaked a
warm, silken path down her throat, but to Sir Randolph she gave a noncommittal
shrug. In truth, she was no connoisseur either, yet it certainly tasted better
than any spirits she'd tried before.

"I suppose my husband would know," she said
lamely, hoping Sir Randolph wouldn't feel too offended. But he didn't look
offended; instead, he seemed quite eager to make their way to the dining room
as he again offered his arm. Corisande was eager, too, giddy excitement rushing
through her as she wondered what Donovan could possibly be up to. Dear Lord, it
was almost as if he were baiting Lady Somerset on purpose.

"Yes, a quaint little place you have, Lady
Somerset, indeed. Cornwall never ceases to astonish me."

A quaint little place? Corisande would never have
called the Somerset residence quaint. Why, it was nearly as large as Donovan's
home, and certainly more ancient. Surely he could see that, too, she thought as
she accompanied Sir Randolph into the dining room to find Donovan studying the
paintings adorning the walls as if he were in some museum, while Lady Somerset
seemed to be hanging in agitation upon his every word.

"Hmmm."

Hmmm? Was that all the man planned to say? About a
large painting by an Italian master of fat cherubs making music, Lady Somerset's
pride
and joy? It appeared so as Donovan took his seat
at the silver-laden table. Lady Somerset's face was beet-red as she swatted
away the assistance of a footman and signaled for Welles to begin the meal.

Donovan at once sent back his turtle soup, saying it
wasn't quite hot enough.

Then, to Corisande's complete astonishment, he sent it
back again, saying it had scalded his tongue.

She began to giggle into her linen napkin; she couldn't
help it, but Donovan's raised eyebrow finally made her stop. But he hadn't
looked stern, no, not at all. She would swear he was smiling behind his napkin,
too, and so was Sir Randolph. At least until he tried to send away his soup,
saying he'd never liked turtle, and Lady Somerset in an exasperated huff sent
all the bowls away, demanding that the first course should start at once.

Donovan made no complaints about the wide array of
dishes appearing at the table—Lady Somerset clearly had gone out of her way to
impress him—no, not complaining through the first course or the second. They
chatted pleasantly about the weather and the fine choice of wines, nothing
controversial at all. But as the third course began, he waved his hand and
pushed away from the table.

Lady Somerset's jaw dropped in dismay.

"But—but, my lord, there is the best yet to come.
Almond custard and potted pheasant with imported figs and apple tart, my cook's
specialties—"

"I am one man, madam, not twenty. Perhaps if you've
so much food yet remaining, you might send it to the parish poorhouse. I'm sure
Mrs. Eliza Treweake would be very happy, indeed, to offer such delicious fare
to her charges."

"Yes, Olympia, I think that's a damned marvelous
idea," Sir Randolph spoke up, clearly emboldened by Donovan's example. "You
really had the cook make too—"

"Oh, be still, Randolph!" So irritated now
that she didn't seem to care how she might appear to Donovan, Lady Somerset
turned upon Corisande. "Obviously you've been filling your new husband's
head with the same ridiculous notions you foisted upon our Lindsay! Well, I'll
have none of it, my girl, not in this house."

"Are you asking us, then, madam, to take leave of
your kind hospitality?"

Corisande's gaze jumped to Donovan, whose voice was so
forbidding that she began to feel nervous. Suddenly the situation wasn't so
humorous anymore, although Lady Somerset at once appeared to back down.

"Of—of course not, Lord Donovan, pray forgive me.
Perhaps I did have my cook prepare a bit too much food—yes, I can see that now."

Lady Somerset
didn't
say, however, as she signaled for the footmen to clear the
table,
that
she planned to send the remainder to the poorhouse, which didn't
surprise Corisande. Nor was she surprised that Donovan had suggested such a
thing, although even that morning she would have been dumbstruck.

But that he would treat Lady Somerset in so arrogant a
manner, yes, that had surprised her. Delighted her, too, and she smiled at him
across the white-clothed table. It had been so wonderful to see Olympia
Somerset undone. Lindsay would never believe it . . .

"Welles, serve port to the gentlemen while Lady
Donovan and I retire to the drawing room."

"I think not, madam," Donovan said firmly, as
warmed from the smile Corisande had just gifted him as the wine served at dinner.
He rose from his chair, having no intention of letting her go anywhere alone
with their hostess, not when he'd done his utmost to cheer her. "No insult
to you, of course, Sir Randolph, but it grows late. I think Corie and I must
bid you good night."

"No insult
taken,
old
man."

Hearing the telling slur in Sir Randolph's voice, whose
eyes had grown puffy and bleary from too much drinking, Donovan felt great pity
for his host. He had taken a liking to Sir Randolph from the moment he'd seen
how warmly the man had welcomed Corisande; now, as Lady Somerset threw her
husband a withering glance, Donovan couldn't help wondering what had ever made
him marry such a witch.

"Are you sure we can't persuade you to stay
longer, my lord? We could all retire to the drawing room, if you prefer—"

"Let them be, Olympia, for God's sake," Sir
Randolph broke in to everyone's surprise and, apparently, his own. He cast a
halfway apologetic look at his outraged wife and then got up shakily, a footman
rushing forward to steady him as he waved a hand to the door. "Come, I'll
walk with you."

Corisande didn't wait for Donovan but left the table
and hurried to offer her arm to Sir Randolph, who leaned upon her heavily as
they left the dining room. Donovan was right behind them. Lady Somerset made no
effort to follow, obviously too incensed to move.

Which was perfectly fine with
Corisande.
If she never saw the woman again in her lifetime, it would be
too soon, but she didn't feel the same at all about Lindsay's father.
Especially when he turned to her as the footman shadowing them went round to
open the front door.

"Have you heard from my daughter, Corie?"

"Yes, yes, I have," she murmured, struck by
the sadness in Sir Randolph's eyes. "Lindsay's fine, having a lovely time.
I'm sure you'll get a letter, too, very soon. I know she must miss you
terribly."

"Ah, if she doesn't write, it would be no
unexpected thing. The life she had here was not a happy one . . . well, after
her mother died. I don't think she's ever forgiven me for bringing Olympia into
this house." Then abruptly he shrugged and smiled wanly. "Don't mind
me. Go on, go on. A good night to you both. You certainly made it one for me."

Corisande gave him a kiss on the cheek. The man reeked
so miserably of wine and spirits that she was grateful when Donovan whisked her
cloak around her shoulders and led her outside. But she didn't readily accept
his hand up into the waiting carriage, looking back as the front door closed
behind them.

"I can't believe he said that about Lindsay—that
she's never forgiven him. Lindsay loves him dearly. She endured Lady Somerset
all these years because of him! I've never heard her say one ill word about her
father."

"That doesn't mean such a hurt isn't there. Even
close friends can't know everything about each other, Corie. Do you think
Lindsay knows everything about you?"

She didn't answer; she couldn't, her throat suddenly
grown
so
tight as she stared at Donovan that she was
unable to breathe. That he could have voiced, however indirectly, the very
thing . . .

"Hell and damnation, woman, it was only a simple
question! Don't look so glum. I would have thought you'd be smiling with
delight as we drove away. Ah, well, all that wonderful arrogance for nothing."

Chapter 26

Corisande gaped at him, stunned. "So it was on
purpose —oh!"

Donovan had scooped her up and deposited her inside the
carriage so abruptly that she had to fight to catch her breath, her stomach
flipflopping in her throat.