“If you won’t go,” her grandmother went on heedlessly, “you’d best hope he’s cleverer with a pistol than he is with finances.”
“God have mercy.” Esme rubbed her head. “And the English claim Albania is dangerous. Varian would have been safer there. Here, his uncle will kill him for a chess set, his friends will kill him for gossip…Y’Allah, even Ali Pasha could not survive among these people. They are insane, all of them.”
The dowager was not attending. Her abstracted gaze wandered about the sitting room. “Of course, there is the bright side. Once he makes you a widow, you might find something vaguely resembling a proper husband.” Her attention settled upon a small watercolor hanging near the mantel. “Dunham’s a widower, and he’s got an heir already. Saxonby’s wife’s ailing, but there’s two brothers between him and the title. Herriot—or is it the other one? Damnation, I must find my Debrett’s—no, I can ask Lady Seales. She’ll know to the minute what’s on the market.”
Esme stared at her grandmother. “What market? What are you talking about?”
“The husband market. Your next. You ain’t meaning to mourn the halfwit all the rest of your days, are you?”
“Heaven grant me patience,” Esme cried. “He is not even dead and you are planning my next husband? You are worse than Qeriba. She at least did not wish him ill. But you are much the same as she. ‘Do this. Do that.’ And I am not to think. I am to have no say.”
“Then why’n’t you try saying something intelligent?”
“Why do you not give me a moment to think? Only you say Varian will fight duels on my account. Why should I believe he would risk his neck for such small cause? He’s more likely to laugh.”
“I told you how men are.”
“Yes, and you told me as well that many men leave their wives in the country while they amuse themselves in town. If he wishes to return to London, and I am there—”
“Yes, most inconvenient for him, I’m sure.”
“Also,” Esme went on doggedly, “you do not think what the talk will be like if I remain with my grandmother in London while my husband lives under another roof.”
“That would be his doing. I didn’t separate you when he was here, and I wouldn’t do so there. But you’re just making excuses. The reason you don’t want to go to London is simple enough. You’re a coward.”
In this particular case, the words struck very near the mark. Esme had admitted as much to herself the instant she thought of the women. All the same, her temper flared at the taunt. “You are completely impossible!” she cried. “You will do and say anything to have your way. But you make a mistake in me. Like it or not, your blood runs in my veins, and I shall have my way. Yes, Grandmother, we shall set out tomorrow, as you wish. No, Grandmother, we do not go to London—not until I know my husband’s opinion. Then I can judge sensibly.”
Lady Brentmor’s scowl was truly ferocious. Esme quaked not a whit. She scowled back.
“You want to go to Mount Eden?” the dowager demanded. “And get the sapskull’s permission first?”
“I shall not race to London to rescue him from duels, only to find I’ve made a fool of myself. I’ve heard your opinion of what must be done. Now I will hear his. Then I will decide. For myself.”
“Very well,” said her grandmother. “As you wish, my lady.”
“And no tricks,” Esme warned. “Percival has shown me the maps. If the carriage goes anywhere but to Mount Eden I shall jump out of it.”
“I wouldn’t dream of tricking you,” came the sardonic reply. “I’m only too happy to drop in on his lordship without warning. About time you saw for yourself. Let him introduce you to his drink—and opium-sotted friends, and his whores. I should like that above all things.” Lady Brentmor moved to the door. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Percival had already scuttled down the hall to the backstairs when his grandmother emerged from Esme’s sitting room. He knew he shouldn’t have been listening at the door. He’d spied on his papa just the once, and look what that had led to. He could hardly bear to think about chess any more because that led his mind to the black queen, which led to Papa’s shameful secret, and thinking about that made Percival feel very sick. He felt rather sick now, as he had from the moment he’d seen the letter on the table at breakfast.
After opening it, Grandmama had got all stiff and purplish in the face. Which she’d every reason to do, as Percival had just learned. And it had nothing to do with Papa, he told himself. It was just a lot of horrid, ignorant gossip.
Frowning, he sat down on the topmost step. The part about the nose ring, for example. Lots of people were aware it was a common form of adornment in several exotic cultures, just as in some cultures it was common to go about unclothed. The gossips couldn’t know these weren’t Albanian practices—nor were any of the other things they’d made up about Cousin Esme.
Except for the tatoos. In some Albanian tribes, women did tatoo their hands. It was very odd that a lot of English gossips had accidently got the one very obscure practice right and everything else so ludicrously wrong. One couldn’t help wondering how anyone but an Albanian would even imagine a woman having tatoos. On her hands.
But it wasn’t impossible, he told himself. It could be a coincidence.
Like the letter’s stationery. Papa surely wasn’t the only one who used that particular kind. It didn’t seem the sort a woman would use, but Mrs. Stockwell-Hume might have borrowed her husband’s. Except he’d died ten years ago.
Percival closed his eyes. It couldn’t be Papa’s stationery. It certainly wasn’t Papa’s handwriting or anyone else’s but Mrs. Stockwell-Hume’s, or Grandmama would have noticed. It couldn’t be a forgery, either. If Papa knew how to disguise his handwriting, he’d have done that with the black queen’s message.
But someone else might know how to forge a letter, his worried brain pointed out. Someone very, very clever. Someone Albanian.
“No,” Percival whispered. “It can’t be. Please, Mama. I’m just imagining things, aren’t I?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Damon was on Mount Eden’s roof patching a chimney, and Gideon was down in the kitchen attempting to assemble a luncheon. Varian was finishing his morning task of sweeping the bedrooms clean, mainly of mouse droppings. Though the cat did her best, she was only one against a legion, and her offspring were too young to be of much assistance. Judging from the volume of the droppings, some of the mice must be twice the size of her children.
He swore when he heard the door knocker. Broom in hand, he raced down the stairs and very nearly crushed the tortoiseshell kitten crouching at the bottom, waiting to pounce.
“Dash it, you’ve only got nine lives.” Varian scooped up the kitten. “Don’t use them all up in one week.”
The kitten clawed free of his hand and tore its way up his shirt. Varion was trying to pry it loose when he reached the door. Hissing, the feline dug its claws in.
Varian gave up, flung the broom aside, and jerked the door open.
He blinked once, and all thought, all the world vanished in that instant. All he saw or knew was Esme, staring up, open-mouthed, at him.
“Esme.” In the next breath, he’d yanked her over the threshold and crushed her in his arms. “Darling, I—Ow!”
He grabbed for the murderous kitten, but Esme pushed his hand away. “You will hurt him,” she said sharply.
“He
is too frightened to let go.” Murmuring in Albanian, she stroked the hissing cat. It promptly succumbed and went willingly into her hands.
By this time, reality had returned. Varian looked past his wife through the open doorway. He saw the carriage and the dowager alighting from it, then Percival jumping down after her.
Varian raked his fingers through his hair. He felt grit. As he took his hand away, he saw it was black. He saw as well he’d marred Esme’s elegant cloak with dirt and soot.
Heat rose from his neck to simmer in his face. He looked at Esme, then away at the dowager who was marching purposefully toward them. Percival had evidently caught sight of Damon on the roof, because the boy was running round to the side of the house for a better view.
Though acutely aware his face was crimson, Varian squared his shoulders. When the dowager reached the doorstep, he bowed. “My lady. This is a pleasant surprise.”
“Don’t talk to me,” she snapped, pushing past him. “It ain’t my doing, but hers. “ She looked about her and sniffed. “Tell my servants to bring the baskets. It’s plain you ain’t prepared for hospitality, and I’m thirsty.” She sailed on down the hall, muttering to herself.
Very soon thereafter, following a hasty washing-up, Damon and Gideon were moving cautiously through the main corridor. They’d already peeped into the morning room, where a small, fierce old woman was perched upon a valise shouting orders to a small army of harassed-looking servants.
In the drawing room, a red-haired adolescent boy lay on his belly before a mouse hole, patiently lecturing a kitten that was swatting at his nose.
Though intriguing in themselves, neither of these visions could be spared more than a glance. Damon and Gideon had one particular quarry in mind and, resisting these lesser temptations, continued their search.
They paused at the partly open library doors and peered in. Then Damon looked at his brother. “It can’t be that little girl,” he whispered.
“It most assuredly is not the mature lady in the morning room.”
“But she’s no more than a child. Varian couldn’t possibly—”