"Charles, here, keeps all our accounts in order," said Lucien. "Not an easy task, I assure you."
Lyon wondered briefly where the man lived. In the overseer's house? Could he have been the one he saw early this morning? No, for heaven's sake, he thought, that was ridiculous. The young man looked like an aesthete and somewhat effeminate. He wouldn't have been surprised to see him in a monk's cowl rather than breeches and a white shirt, or hunched over old scholarly volumes in a musky library.
"Did Diana give you a tour, Lyon?"
He wanted to tell Lucien that his daughter had given him a monotonous little speech and then the boot, but he merely nodded.
"Did she also swim with you?"
"No. I believe she wanted to see some of her friends." He smiled. "She deserted me."
Lucien heard nothing amiss in his son-in-law's voice. "I have told Charles that you have inherited Mendenhall plantation on Tortola. He is acquainted with the attorney for the Mendenhall estate, Mr. Edward Bemis."
"Mr. Bemis has seen to everything, my lord," said Charles. "He is a competent gentleman, and honorable. He, ah, knows that you have arrived and are here on Savarol Island."
"Does he, now?" Lyon said. "I imagine that I will meet him soon enough. Perhaps next week, once I learn a bit about plantation life and its workings."
Charles bowed his head in acknowledgment.
"Well, my boy, why don't we join the ladies? It's time for luncheon and I, for one, am ravenous."
They left Charles Swanson at the desk, poring over ledgers. "Where does he live?" Lyon asked once they were alone.
"He has a small house near Grainger's," Lucien said. "Why?"
Lyon shrugged. "I just wondered. How long has he been in your employ?"
"Not long. Just four months. He came highly recommended from Jamaica. Worked for the Barretts, you know, at Greenwood." Lucien paused a moment. "A strange man in some ways. He avoids the sun like the plague and his only request is that he go to Tortola every week. As for his glowing description of Edward Bemis, well ---" Lucien shrugged. "Who knows?"
Who knows, indeed? Thought Lyonel. "Your home is magnificent," he said as they walked up the wide mahogany stairs to the second floor.
"I know. You could transplant it to England, could you not?"
"No," Lyon said as they came onto the veranda. "Its proper setting is here in paradise."
All three ladies were seated at the long table. Diana had changed into a cool muslin gown of soft pink. She avoided Lyon's eyes. As for Patricia, she was eyeing the earl with a knowing look that made him flush a bit. Deborah was frowning toward the black girl Moira.
"My dear," Lucien said, leaning down to kiss his wife lightly on her powdered cheek.
Lyon, watching this, strolled to Diana, and said, "My love." He kissed her cheek, and as he straightened, he saw the glint of anger in her eyes. He grinned. "I told your father you'd deserted me."
"Yes," said Patricia. "He was swimming --- alone --- when I found him."
"Where is Daniel?" Lyon said quickly, aware that Diana was now frowning from him to Patricia.
Patricia gave a petulant shrug. "Likely he is tending a sick slave. There is always something wrong with them. I do hope he washes well before he joins us."
"You may serve the luncheon now," Deborah said.
"Yes, missis," said Moira, scurrying away.
"Impudent little fool," Deborah said under her breath. Lucien had told her in no uncertain terms the previous night that she wasn't to abuse the house slaves, and for many moments she'd simply stared at him, unable to find words to defend herself. In the end, she'd said nothing, merely nodded, her head bowed.
Diana was thinking; Lyon swam naked. She stared a m
oment at Patricia, who was eyeing Lyon hungrily, at least to her mind. Damnable man!
Daniel arrived a few moments later, apologizing for his lateness, spreading his warmth to everyone at the table, even to his wife, who most likely didn't deserve it, Lyon thought.