Seeking Philbert Woodbead ( A Madcap Regency Romance ) (The Fairweather Sisters) (4 page)

“Because—”

“I will
tell the tale,” the duke snapped at Lord Adair. “She is my grandmother.”

Lord
Adair’s eyes twinkled. He gestured for him to proceed.

“Now,
Sophia Radclyff, my grandmother, is someone we do not discuss and we will
continue not to discuss in the future,” the duke said, his eyes boring into the
three faces in front of him.

“After
today you mean, that is, after you tell us why she is not to be spoken of in
the first place,” Penelope agreed.

“What I am
about to disclose shall not leave this room,” the duke added quietly. It was
not a request but an order.

Celine bit
her lip wondering if she had any right to learn the duke’s family secret.
Penelope’s hand clamped down on her arm forcing her to remain.

“Continue,”
Penelope begged her husband.

The duke
closed his eyes, “Sophia Radclyff …”

“Yes,”
Penelope prompted.

“Had an
adulterous affair with a French royal.”

“Hmm,”
Penelope said not impressed.

“She was
twenty five at the time,” the duke continued. “And then she turned thirty and
…”

“And?”
Penelope encouraged.

“She had an
illicit affair with a Spanish Royal.”

Celine’s
eyebrows shot up.

“After
that,” the duke concluded crisply, “she ran away with a sultan. When she came
back to England, it was on the arm of a Rajah. She died at the old age of
eighty and in the arms of a flea trainer.”

“Good
Lord,” Penelope whispered. This time she was impressed, as was Celine.

A small
silence ensued after this revelation.

“But I still
refuse to believe that my grandmother is this scoundrel’s great aunt,” the duke
burst out. He grabbed the bell and rang it furiously, “I am going to get my own
family tree out and then we will see.”

Perkins’
old nose appeared inside the door, “Your grace?”

“Get me the
Radclyff family tree,” the duke barked.

The tree
arrived. The duke poured over it. He frowned, traced, counted, held the paper
up to the light, and finally glared.

After
another minute of going back and forth between the two sheets, he said, “My
wife is indisposed and Celine is unmarried. I am not going to have this sort of
fellow in the house at this time.”

“Gunhilda
and I are good enough chaperones for Celine,” Penelope broke in.

“No,” the
duke snapped.

“Someone is
trying to kidnap him. I can’t leave him alone in England, especially when he is
refusing to go to his father for protection. You have to keep him. If he gets
too vexing, then just let the fellows kidnap him. Let him stay for a while and
then decide,” Lord Adair requested one last time.

“Oh, let’s
wake him up,” Penelope cried in frustration.” I am sick of the man sleeping
away while we talk about him over his head.” She picked up a crimson vase from
the table, grabbed the lilies in it and savagely flung them aside. She then
poured the water from the vase on top of Lord George Rodrick Irvin, the future
ninth Earl of Devon, currently holding the courtesy title of Viscount Elmer and
having nine thousand pounds of yearly income.

The duke
watched her lustily, while the rest eyed her warily.

George
Rodrick Irvin finally spluttered awake. He blinked the water from his lashes,
and his vivid blue eyes fell on Celine who was directly in his line of vision.

Not
squinty, Celine thought, her own brown gaze caught and trapped by his bright
blue one. And for someone who had spent the night overindulging and was rudely
awakened by the contents of a flower pot he looked remarkably well. She stared
at him like a mooncalf, her breath stuck somewhere in her throat, her limbs
frozen and her wits cruising.

George’s
lips curved up in a crooked smile.

She shyly
smiled back.

George
closed his eyes, opened his mouth and sang in a rich rumbling voice,

Up and
down the market town,

Wearing
a bonnet and bridal gown,

You
hollered, you hollered and you hollered till your face was blue,

That
your love was off to Timbuctoo.

Now you
are free to join me in my feather bed,

Where we
shall play heels over head!

Celine’s
smile vanished and she inched closer to Penelope. “What is he doing?” she asked
from the corner of her mouth.

“He is
singing a bawdy song,” Penelope whispered back.

“Whatever
for?” Celine asked.

“I think he
thinks he is in a tavern.”

“But he
isn’t,” Celine said. “Should I inform him?”

“No, from
the looks of him I suggest we stay silent.”

“He does look
wild eyed.”

“He should
stop singing. It is disturbing the men,” Penelope frowned.

“I think a
wheel in his brain has dislodged,” Celine suggested.

“And now
that wheel is rattling around in his head,” Penelope agreed.

“Not rattling
but sloshing around so loudly that he can no longer think, and hence he is
spewing nonsense.”

Penelope
pressed Celine’s hand warmly, “I am glad we are related. We can read each
other’s thoughts so well.”

Celine
smiled.

“Wench,”
George stopped singing and addressed Celine, “what sort of an establishment is
this? Get me a brandy.”

Wench,
Celine mouthed in shock, while Mrs Beatle inside her head collapsed in a dead
faint.

“Celine is
not a wench,” Penelope informed him, “she is a lady.”

“Pardon me,
Miss, you do look like someone starched enough to cut a man in two,” George
corrected himself cheerfully.

His smile
vanished when he spotted Penelope’s large belly, “Is that—” he started to ask
but never finished, for Penelope swung back her fist and punched him in the
face.

A minute of
stunned silence later, the duke carefully asked his wife, “My dear, was that
necessary?”

“He was
ogling my bosom,” Penelope replied primly, “and singing a bawdy song. I am
surprised you did not take offence, Charles.”

The duke
wiped his brow, “I would love to agree with you, but I don’t think he could see
straight or think straight. You might have been a little hast—”

“Lord
Adair,” Penelope cut in, “I have been told that most aristocrats are related to
each other. Is that true?”

“I suppose
to an extent, yes,” Lord Adair replied, confused at the sudden change in topic.

Penelope
chewed her lip thoughtfully. “Do you think Lord Elmer is related to the king?”

“Undoubtedly,”
Lord Adair said.

Penelope
howled in distress. “I have given the king’s cousin a bloody nose. I am so, so
sorry.”

Celine let
the duke handle Penelope. Meanwhile, she spent her time ensuring that not a
speck of blood tarnished the duke’s excellent Turkish carpet. Within a few
moments she had every handkerchief in the room laid under George’s head and
under his nose. She then called for the brandy. The clock was striking eight
‘o’ clock in the morning, but the way things were going she was sure that
everyone would need something far stronger than tea or coffee.

Perkins
wobbled into the room with the brandy tray, and Celine picked up a glass and
froze.

The silver
tray was well polished, and in it she could clearly see her reflection and the
fact that not one, not two, but three strands of dark brown hair had escaped
her coiled bun.

She
frowned.

Celine
dipped the quill in ink to write a letter on behalf of the duchess politely
declining an invitation to yet another party.

The duchess
herself sat reading her favourite novel with her feet up on the footstool while
a maid fanned her with a bunch of large peacock feathers.

Celine
paused to stretch her arms and rub her tired eyes. The morning’s excitement
combined with precious little sleep the night before was taking a toll on her.

The large grandfather
clock struck three times.

Her wits
woke as if doused with cold water. She had twenty minutes to finish all the
letters before Dorothy was done with her music lessons and half an hour before
she would have to insist that Penelope retire to her room to rest. Thereafter,
Mrs Cornley would meet her in the …

The duke
stormed into the Blue Room. “Lord Elmer cannot stay,” he groused.

“He is only
here for a day, Charles,” Penelope soothed her irate husband.

“Adair
should have taken the fellow with him,” the duke muttered.

“You know
he had to urgently leave town on the King’s business. Besides, I invited Lord
Elmer to stay for dinner. It would have been rude not to ask him. Mrs Beacon’s
handbook for housewives that your mother kindly left for me clearly states
that—”

“Penny, I
don’t like him. Adventure seems to trail him, or he seeks out danger like an
irresponsible child. All my life I have heard of pickles that the fellow has
got into. Once I heard he was shipwrecked, another time kidnapped, and then that
he had kidnapped someone. I remember now, I had met him in a pub once when he
had come to return a priceless vase that he had stolen from Lord Belair. He
said he had stolen it to see if he could steal it. Then when he realised that
he had successfully stolen it and that no one realised that it was him who had
done the deed, he decided to return the vase.”

“That was
noble of him.”

The duke’s
mouth twisted humourlessly, “He said the vase was so ugly that it offended his
refined senses. He couldn’t sleep with the thing in the same room as him. He
was compelled to give it back. He is a thief, a blackguard, a flirt.”

“So is
Jimmy the highwayman, and he is my friend,” Penelope snapped.

The duke
gave up and glared at the only other person present in the room … Celine.

Celine
smiled. She was used to the duke’s moods. He had a heart of gold even if his
face wore a constant glowering expression. She picked up the glass which
Perkins had just brought into the room and dangled it in front of Penelope.
“Here, Penny, drink up.”

“No,”
Penelope said firmly.

“Come, just
a sip,” Celine coaxed.

“You are
trying to poison me,” Penelope said, her nose wrinkling in distaste.

“With cow’s
milk?”

“Where is
Lord Elmer?” Penelope asked taking a reluctant sip.

“In bed.
Lord Adair suggested that I let him sleep all day and only wake him at dinner
time,” Celine replied going back to her chair and picking up the quill.

“Do you
want to marry him?” Penelope asked, dumping the milk into a priceless vase.

“Marry who?”
Celine asked producing another glass of milk.

“Lord
Elmer.”

“Penny!”

“I could
ask the duke to keep him around if you fancied him,” Penelope persisted.

“You can
safely send him home.”

Penelope
sighed, “Once this babe is born, I will invite you for a season in London. You
will have plenty of men to choose from.”

Celine
produced a third glass of milk, since Penelope had dumped the second into a
potted plant. “Drink … for the babe.”

Penelope
drank.

***

Later that evening
Celine caught Lord Elmer on his way to the dining room. She scrutinised his
pallor from beneath her lashes. Sleep had done him good. He was only a trifle
green and looked far handsomer than he had that morning.

She
swallowed and peeked again.

He smiled,
his vivid blue eyes crinkling at the corners.

She
searched his bright clear gaze for a hint of tragedy, a crumb of madness or a
smidgen of sorrow. She waded through the sparkling intelligence and dug through
the humour. Alas, all she could find was an odd alert expression, which she
realised after a moment of contemplation was happiness.

He cleared
his throat.

She did not
hear him, her brain whirling speedily as she judged, dissected and guessed what
sort of a man-beast stood in front of her. It was a habit of hers to liken men
and women to various creatures of the animal kingdom. It helped her understand
them better. For instance her father was a scrawny hen and her mother a wild
angry goose who often honked and waved her wings at him.

Now, Lord
Elmer seemed the sort of man that women, animals and children adored on sight.
He was a dog, not one of those small moody creatures but a large dog with a
pleasant, easy countenance that would, if one insisted, eat a banana peel just
to oblige you. Though, he was by no means an idiotic dog but a smart one. One
that looked muscular enough to take down a couple of robbers with well-placed
bites using sharp, white teeth ….