Silver Splendor (35 page)

“We’ve come to see the duke,” Nicholas said. “The Duchess Adelaide met us in the drive and gave us leave to visit.”

“The duchess invited ye?” the woman said, clearly staggered by the notion. She stared from Nicholas to Elizabeth and back again. Hastily she retreated, swinging the door wide. “Come in, then, if ye will, an’ welcome to ye.”

Nicholas’s hand at her waist, Elizabeth stepped inside a vast entry hall. The room seemed chilly and dim after the bright sunshine. The shadowed shape of a staircase climbed to the second floor; on either side of the carved newel posts stood identical suits of chunky armor, like silent sentries from another age. Elizabeth gazed askance from the closed visors to the hodgepodge of shields and swords displayed against the dark.

“I’m Mrs. Drabble, th’ housekeeper. I’ll be puttin’ ye to wait in th’ saloon.”

She spun, her faded black skirts twitching as she marched off, moving swiftly despite her broad girth. Elizabeth hastened to keep up, Nicholas striding easily beside her. The tap of their footsteps echoed in the dark hall.

Upon entering the saloon, Elizabeth felt as if she’d stepped back centuries. The walls were wainscoted in aged English oak and draped in tapestries, the mullioned windows painted with heraldic scenes. Numerous glass cases displayed more weaponry, maces and dirks and guns. A musty scent pervaded the air and a thin coating of dust dulled the bulky chairs and tables.

At the end of the long room stood the only concession to modernity, a billiards table over which Drew Sterling bent, stick in hand. The crack of balls rang out. Straightening, he saw the visitors and an expression of pleasured surprise spread over his aquiline features. Lifting a hand in greeting, he ambled toward them.

“I say, Hawkesford, what are you doing in the wild, woolly north country?”

“I’ve business with the duke.”

Drew didn’t appear to notice Nicholas’s coolness. “Glad you’ve come, old chap. Hope you can stay awhile. We’re starved for decent company around here, you know.”

“Some of us has plenty to do,” Mrs. Drabble sniffed.

“Don’t scold, Drabbie,” Drew said, patting her pudgy shoulder. “Be a good old girl and dust off a bottle of that French brandy my uncle keeps stashed under lock and key.”

The housekeeper shook her many chins. “Oh, fiddle, it’s yer mother I’ll be fetchin’.” To Nicholas, she added, “Ye’ve come to see His Grace, you say, but he’s still abed, wi’ the doctor tendin’ him.”

Elizabeth felt a start of dismay. “He isn’t ill, I hope.”

“He’s only sleeping late,” Drew said. “Dozing off the effect of those quackish potions Gilbert Marsh feeds him.”

“Here now, Master Drew, don’t ye be speakin’ ill of th’ good doctor.” Mrs. Drabble looked at Nicholas. “Who should I say is callin’?”

“Lord and Lady Hawkesford.”

As the housekeeper departed, Drew gave Elizabeth a piercing stare. “Lady Hawkesford, you say? We met at the Garforths’ ball. Aren’t you Cicely’s art tutor?”

“Not anymore,” Nicholas said curtly. “Elizabeth and I were married two days ago.”

Piqued at his presumption, Elizabeth said, “But I will still be teaching Cicely. She has a strong interest in sculpting, an interest I intend to nurture.”

Nicholas aimed that lordly look at her, and she stared back without flinching. She knew what he was thinking… she knew and felt annoyed. He would
allow
her to instruct Cicely as long as it suited his plans.

Drew waved them into chairs. “Your sister’s well, trust.”

Elizabeth saw Nicholas’s jaw tense slightly as he sat down. “Perfectly so,” he said.

“A pretty thing, Cicely is. A pity she didn’t come too.”

“We hardly wanted my sister tagging along on our honeymoon trip.”

Drew laughed, his knowing dark eyes flitting over Elizabeth in a way that made ner flush. He might not realize, she reminded herself, that they were cousins.

“I don’t imagine you would,” he said. Strolling to the billiards table, he bent to aim and shoot; the ball careened off the side and rolled to a rest in the center of the green baize. “Drat,” he said languidly, before raising his eyes to Nicholas. “Could I interest you in a game, old chap? Low stakes, until you get the feel of the table.”

“Perhaps another time.”

Drew shrugged. “Cursed table’s warped, anyhow, like everything else in this dungeon. Still, it beats twiddling my thumbs, I suppose.”

Suppressing a shudder, Elizabeth glanced around the saloon.
Dungeon
was an apt description for the cache of knives and crossbows gleaming dully from their nests of dark velvet inside the glass case. Politely she asked, “Do you share your uncle’s interest in weaponry?”

“Gad, no.” Tossing down the billiards stick, Drew walked to the fireplace and plucked a slim dueling sword from a display above the carved wooden mantel “Perhaps I should, though. Might prove amusing to take up fencing.
En garde!”

He struck a pose, feet planted wide, arm stretched out to point the sword at her chest. Aware of Nicholas tensing in the chair opposite her, Elizabeth sat on the edge of her seat. Her heart tripped a wild dance. For an instant Drew’s world weary expression altered into a look so ferocious she could believe him capable of coldblooded murder…

“Dear me, whatever is going on here?”

The feminine voice trilled from the doorway. Nicholas stood up, and Elizabeth’s widened eyes swung to a woman clad in garish turquoise, the gown adorned with too many flounces and frills, as if she were trying to compensate for her gaunt figure. Her bony fingers fluttered in distress as she swooped forward like a vulture in search of prey.

“Put that dreadful thing away, Drew.”

Pulling a face, he lowered the sword. “Don’t fret, Mother. I was merely showing off Uncle’s infamous weapon collection.”

She grimaced. “How morbid. You’ll frighten our guests away.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Drew muttered, stretching up to replace the sword on its wall hooks. “God knows we’ve few enough visitors to this dismal pile.”

“I’m sorry to hear more people don’t come calling out here in the country,” Elizabeth said pleasantly. “We had quite the enjoyable drive across the moors.”

“Our remote locale isn’t what keeps company away,” Drew said, his sulky expression returning. “It’s my dear uncle’s penchant for making their visits miserable. He never could bear to see anyone else have any fun.”

“That’s quite enough.” The sourness on her thin lips sweetened into a syrupy smile as Philippa took Nicholas’s preferred hand. “My dear Lord Hawkesford, how very marvelous to see you again.”

“The pleasure is all mine.”

Turning, she said graciously, “And you must be the new countess. When we came to tea at Hawkesford House, that close mouthed husband of yours never breathed a word of his imminent marital intentions.”

“Please, call me Elizabeth. And I’m sorry I missed that tea. I was… indisposed.”

“Dear me.” Philippa’s arms flapped like bird wings, and Elizabeth stifled a smile. “All that wretched fog and smoke in London can make a person quite ill. We’ve a resident doctor who can provide you with a tonic should you need one. But a few days of this fine country air should restore you.”

“And bore you,” Drew mumbled from his stance near the fireplace.

Philippa drilled a glare at him, but her face dripped honey as she shifted her brown eyes back. “Now, you must promise to stay for luncheon; we’ve so much to talk about. Tell me, your lordship, what brings you so far from London?”

As Nicholas spun the story of paying their respects to the duke, Elizabeth itched to capture Philippa’s expressions on paper. In a flash her lean features could go from ingratiating to shrewish and back again. Could such mood swings signify a fickle temperament, someone who might kill in a fit of passion?

Yet she’d exhibited no sign of recognition. Or was she hiding her reaction?

In the antiquated dining room, Elizabeth chewed a tough cut of mutton and listened to Philippa rattle on about the history of Swanmere Manor and the duke’s illustrious forebears. The subject both fascinated and disturbed Elizabeth; it was difficult to accept that her own ancestry lay so deeply rooted in this house.

The Duchess Adelaide had joined them, and sat silently at one end of the lengthy table, her dull eyed attention focused on her plate Elizabeth studied the woman with veiled interest. The lively horsewoman of that morning might never have existed. Nicholas had said the duchess’s two children were dead. Could Adelaide resent Elizabeth for being the duke’s only surviving child?

Finishing his lumpy damson cobbler, Nicholas leaned back in his carved armchair and said conversationally, “Did any of you know that Elizabeth’s mother once lived in this house?”

Elizabeth’s heart faltered. Drew turned to stare at her. The Duchess Adelaide stopped chewing. Philippa’s spoon halted in midair.

“I don’t understand,” Philippa murmured. “I thought you were an American, Elizabeth.”

Nicholas spoke before Elizabeth could. “She moved there as a young girl, some twenty years past. But she was born here.” He paused, looking around the table. “Perhaps some of you remember her mother? Your Grace, she was your companion for a time. Her name was Lucy Templeton.”

The duchess said nothing, her brown eyes exhibiting no emotion, no trace of her thoughts.

A slice of cobbler quivered on Philippa’s spoon. The silver implement clattered to the table, its cream and plum contents spattering the white cloth.

“Lucy Templeton?” she repeated, her voice high and thready. “I don’t believe you.”

“Then look at my wife,” Nicholas said softly. “Look at her and tell me she’s not Lucy’s daughter.”

Elizabeth felt the bite of Philippa’s sharp scrutiny. The corners of her thin lips turned downward and her pale cheeks drew inward, as if she’d tasted something sour.

“Then you’re… you’re…” she sputtered.

“My uncle’s byblow,” Drew said, his eyes intent on Elizabeth. “I was only nine when you left, but you’re the very image of your mother. I remember you toddling after me —” He shot a hooded glance at the duchess. “Whenever, of course, my uncle would allow his bastard brat to visit.”

Nicholas stood, flattening his palms on the table and directing an icy glare at Drew. “You are speaking of the Countess of Hawkesford.”

Drew had the good grace to mumble an apology. Hands damp, Elizabeth twisted the fraying damask napkin in her lap. Hostility hung like a tangible presence in the air. Everyone was staring at her and she wanted to crawl beneath the threadbare Persian carpet. Behind which of these faces lay the mind that plotted her death? Only Nicholas’s eyes regarded her with tender warmth, embuing her with the courage to square her shoulders and gaze around at the gathering.

Mrs. Drabble marched in like a sweep of fresh air. “The duke’s ready to receive yer lordship now. An’ I’ll thank’ee f make haste. His Grace don’t like to be kept waitin’.”

“Then, by all means, let’s go,” Nicholas said easily.

Philippa shot up, her napkin tumbling to the floor. “What will you say to the duke?” she shrieked.

“Sit down,” said the duchess. “You’re making a spectacle.”

Philippa turned, her eyes spiteful. “A spectacle, am I, Adelaide? Will you welcome the duke’s bastard into this house? She must have come here to wheedle an inheritance out of him.”

“Hawkesford can support his wife, I’m sure,” the duchess said. “And he might not take kindly to your name calling. So sit down… before you make a more ridiculous ass of yourself.”

Like a clay figure formed without a supporting armature, Philippa drooped into her chair. Her dark eyes retained a spark of belligerence that belied the benevolent hostess of moments earlier.

“Do pardon us,” Nicholas blandly told the others, while holding out a hand to Elizabeth.

She stood on wobbly legs. Holding tight to his arm, she followed Mrs. Drabble out the door and up the flight of stairs dominating the entrance hall. The duchess’s defense had been unexpected. Was she really so indifferent to her husband’s illegitimate child?

Suits of armor lined the shadowy corridor; the closed visors gave Elizabeth an eerie prickling sensation, as if she were being watched. Apparently oblivious to the display, Mrs. Drabble marched straight past. She halted before a door at the end of the hall and rapped firmly.

You’re about to meet your father,
Elizabeth thought.

Her throat felt as dry as the dust that hung in the air. Her fingers tightened on Nicholas’s arm; his hand brushed over hers in a comforting caress. Then the time for panic ended as the door clicked quietly open.

A slender man stood there, his fair hair burnished by the dim light beyond. Judging by the fine lines around his eyes and mouth, he looked to be a decade older than Nicholas, yet something about the stranger reminded Elizabeth of a choirboy.

“My Lord and Lady of Hawkesford, Doctor Marsh,” Mrs. Drabble announced.

His pleasant smile dwindled as his blue eyes moved from Nicholas to her. He started visibly, his scrubbed features paling to ash. Clearly here was yet another person who had known Lucy Templeton.

Gilbert Marsh moved back, motioning them inside. “Good afternoon,” he murmured. “The duke has been awaiting you.”

Elizabeth stepped into a bedroom glutted with medieval bric-a-brac — swords and shields, arrows and pikes, spears and clubs, and a host of other implements of murder. A horned helmet sat atop the cluttered dressing table; a collection of spurs dangled from the mantelpiece. A wicked looking trident stood propped in a corner. The presence of so many weapons gave her the shivers, yet the simple carved beauty of a few articles appealed to her artist’s eye.

The curtains were drawn, rendering the room dim and stuffy. A medicinal scent pervaded the air. A faint movement drew her gaze to the shrunken figure of a man seated in a wingback chair by the fireplace. His stooped frame was angled forward as he stared intently at her. Stomach tied into a knot, Elizabeth walked slowly toward him. Leaning heavily on a silver topped cane, he hauled himself halfway to his feet.

“Lucy?” he whispered.

The quavering note in his voice pierced her heart. Without pausing to think, she swept forward and knelt before him, her hand covering the gnarled fingers atop the cane. “Not Lucy,” she said gently. “Elizabeth.”