Part 9 (1/2)

Arabella stepped into the copper tub with a sigh of enjoyment. She slid beneath the water, drawing her knees up and dropping her head back as Becky poured fresh water from a jug over her head then ma.s.saged soap into her scalp.

”How would you like to live in London, Becky?”

Becky's hands stilled. ”Oh, my goodness, m'lady. Town . . . I couldn't live there.”

”If I go, do you think you could come with me?” Arabella asked the question lightly. Becky was only sixteen and she hadn't so far given any indications of a swain in her life.

”Oh, I don't know, m'lady.” Becky poured rinsing water over the wet curls. ”Will you be going, Lady Arabella?”

”I'm considering it,” Arabella said. ”And if I do go, I would like you to come with me. If, of course, there's no one here to keep you. Indeed, Becky, I don't think I could manage without you.”

”Oh, m'lady . . . there's my mam,” Becky said, pouring lemon juice.

”We would come back here at Christmas and every summer,” Arabella explained. ”And in London there would be footmen, grooms, any number of possibilities . . . I don't think Mrs. Fith would want to deny you those opportunities.” She was beginning to sound like she was persuading herself, she thought.

”Well, I don't know, m'lady,” Becky repeated, but sounded rather less doubtful.

”Think about it, Becky.” Arabella rose from the water in a shower of drops and reached for the towel. ”We'll talk again in a few days.”

She was ready a few minutes before the clock struck five. Becky had dressed her hair in a chignon at the nape of her neck, pomading the side curls to a glossy deep chocolate artfully threaded with ribbon loops of dark red silk. The stays lifted the swell of her bosom above the low neck of the pink damask gown and nipped her waist to accentuate the rich fullness of the skirts.

”Oh, you do look lovely, Lady Arabella,” Becky said admiringly. ”Shall you wear the pearls?” She presented the jewel box.

Arabella opened it and took out the single strand of flawlessly matched pearls. Whatever she might say about her father's general neglect, he bought only the best when he decided to buy anything. She held it up to her neck and the pearls took on the pinkish hue of the damask, glowing softly against her skin. She seemed to be going to an awful lot of trouble for a simple dinner at home, she reflected somewhat aridly, fastening the strand at her nape. She didn't have to compete with her dinner companion. Although failing to do so she suspected increased the inherent disadvantages in her situation. She took the Chinese painted silk fan that Becky handed her, tucked an embroidered lace handkerchief into the lace ruffles that fell over her forearm, gave herself a mental nod of approval, and sailed downstairs.

Jack, waiting in the drawing room doorway, heard the click of her heels on the stair and crossed the hall to meet her at the foot of the staircase. He bowed with a flourish as she stepped down beside him. The gray eyes glimmered as he took in her appearance, lingered for an instant on the creamy billow of her breast above her decolletage. ”Good evening, madam. My compliments.”

Arabella regarded him suspiciously, but could detect nothing untoward in his expression. No hint of mockery in the elaborately formal greeting. She decided to follow his lead. ”Good evening, your grace,”she responded, with a sweeping curtsy.

He was looking particularly elegant in a cutaway silk coat of light and dark green stripes, with large silver b.u.t.tons, a high collar, and a stiffly starched cravat. His hair was as usual unpowdered and tied back at the nape. She couldn't help noticing as she rose from her curtsy how the open style of the coat revealed the powerful swell of his thighs in plain dark green britches b.u.t.toned below the knee. For once he carried no sword.

”Shall we go in to dinner?” He offered his arm.

Franklin had arranged the long table with the same degree of formality he had always used when the family dined together. Two places had been set at either end of the gleaming surface. The view from end to end was obscured by branched silver candelabra, their tapers struggling to compete with the evening light. The steward, in his best livery, stood at the foot of the table, waiting to draw out Arabella's chair. A manservant stood behind the duke's chair at the head of the table.

Arabella took her seat with a murmur of thanks and shook out her napkin. She looked up the expanse of table, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes. She had the feeling that this arrangement was not what his grace had had in mind when he'd insisted upon a diner a deux. To all intents and purposes, with this arrangement they could be dining separately. He hadn't taken his seat but stood with one hand on the back of the chair, ignoring the servant standing behind it.

”No,” he stated, ”this really won't do.” He strolled around the table and came down to Arabella's end. ”Set my place down here, Franklin,” he instructed, taking the seat on Arabella's right. ”I'm not going to shout down the length of this table.”

Franklin looked at Arabella, who said, ”Just as his grace wishes, Franklin.”

”But, my lady, Lord Dunston, your father, would always insist-”

”That is hardly relevant, Franklin,” Jack reminded him, somewhat unnecessarily, Arabella thought with a flash of annoyance.

”No, indeed, your grace,” the steward said stiffly. He signaled to the servant to rearrange the place settings.

”And you may leave us to serve ourselves,” Jack said in pleasanter tones.

Franklin looked even more put out but he merely bowed and set a covered silver soup tureen on the table between them. He removed the cover, bowed again, and made his stately way from the room, closing the doors behind him.

”Oh, dear,” Arabella said. ”Poor Franklin. He does have a very strong sense of what's right and proper. My father always insisted upon absolute formality at the dinner table.”

”And your brother?” he inquired with a raised eyebrow.

”That was a different matter,” she said shortly. ”Franklin judges these matters by the old standards.”

”Well, they will all become accustomed to the new order,” Jack said carelessly. He raised the ladle in the soup tureen and filled Arabella's bowl. ”This smells good.”

Arabella made no comment, although her temper stirred again at this callous dismissal of the servants'opinions. She suspected that Franklin was trying with his insistence on ritual to convince himself that there was nothing wrong with Lady Arabella's dining alone with an unrelated stranger. If she had succeeded in keeping herself to herself in her own apartments, the household would have felt that some degree of propriety was being maintained. As it was . . . well, after Lavinia's visit this morning, the gossip would be all over the county by now.

Arabella frowned into her wine.

”Is something wrong with your wine?” Jack asked as she continued to look raptly into her goblet.

”No.” She shook her head. ”Nothing at all.” She took up her spoon. ”Now explain to me, if you please, sir, the essential difference between the Whigs and the Tories.”

Jack accepted the task, although there were other topics he would have preferred to pursue. ”In essence, the Tories are the king's party, they support the absolute power of monarchy and Parliament. The Whigs believe rather more in the power of the people.” He broke a roll with a snap, as if punctuating his exposition.

Arabella frowned. ”So a Whig would sympathize with the revolution in France . . . a revolution against the tyranny of the monarchy, the clergy, and the n.o.bles. I believe you said you were a Whig. Do you have an opinion on the revolution?” She looked over at him, her gaze bright with interest.

Jack took a long time before he answered. It was an intelligent, reasonable question. She was not to know how he had been scarred by that blood-soaked mayhem, but it still took him long minutes before he had the riot of emotion and memory under control. ”There are few Whigs now who would support the murderous mob rule that the revolution has become. No one supported regicide.”

Arabella nodded again, somberly. The executions of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette had let loose the Reign of Terror upon France. Anarchy reigned across the country and from what she'd seen in the few newspapers that reached her, French emigres, poverty-stricken refugees, crowded the streets of London.

”Do you know anyone who's been to Paris since it started?” It was a natural-enough question. There had been so much intermingling of French and English aristocratic families, few members of the English elite didn't have relatives and friends across the Channel. ”I believe Frederick was there some time ago,”she said thoughtfully. ”When I last saw him he mentioned that he had some business there.” She shook her head with a frown. ”I can't imagine what business Frederick had, apart from gaming.”

Unless of course he was escaping his creditors.

Jack raised his gla.s.s to his lips. ”I can't imagine why anyone would be fool enough to touch the sh.o.r.es of France.” He sipped. ”But your brother, my dear, was ever a fool.” His voice was a harsh rasp and for a moment the gray gaze was as cold and bleak as Arctic ice. His drained the contents of the goblet in one swallow, then immediately refilled it from the decanter at his elbow.

The chill in the room was palpable despite the great orange ball of the sinking sun in the window embrasure.

Just what had Frederick done to earn Jack Fortescu's undying enmity? Arabella half opened her mouth to ask the question and then closed it again. She couldn't begin to form the words, not in this frigid atmosphere. Quietly she continued with her soup, trying to ignore the silence as if it was somehow perfectly normal. When she finished she rang the handbell at her side.

Franklin's return-accompanied by the manservant laboring under the burden of a tray bearing a haunch of venison, a dish of potatoes, and a carp in parsley sauce-provided welcome cover from the awkwardness. The dishes were set upon the table, and more were brought. b.u.t.tered beans, artichokes, a gla.s.s bowl of red currant jelly.

”Mrs. Elliot hopes this will suffice, Lady Arabella,” Franklin said. ”If his grace should wish for poultry, there is a boiled fowl with capers.”

Jack held up his hand. ”No . . . no, indeed, Franklin. Pray thank Mrs. Elliot, but this will be more than sufficient. It's a positive feast.” He tried for a warm smile but it fell on stony ground.

”Probably not what you're used to in London, your grace,” Franklin declared, depositing the soup tureen on the servant's tray with something of a thump. ”Should I carve the venison, my lady?””Yes, please,” Arabella said, taking matters into her own hands. Maybe the duke would prefer to continue dinner without the attention of the steward, but someone else in the room would at least force them to engage in some neutral topic of conversation. ”I wonder when the weather will break,” she said brightly. ”Usually a heat wave doesn't last this long. Do you think there'll be a storm, your grace?”Jack regarded her over the rim of his goblet. The desolation had left his eyes and his mouth now had a slight curve. ”I trust not, madam,” he said. ”But perhaps your garden could do with the rain.”

”Certainly it could,” Arabella said, leaning back as Franklin slipped a plate of roast venison onto the table in front of her. ”The lawns are looking very sad.””Then we must hope for a shower soon,” Jack said gravely, receiving his own plate. ”Thank you, Franklin. You may leave us to serve ourselves from here.”The steward bowed and left the room. ”Red currant jelly, your grace?” Arabella reached for the cut-gla.s.s bowl. ”All right, Arabella, time to call truce,” he said, taking the bowl from her. ”As I'm sure you've realized by now, there was no love lost between your brother and myself.” He spooned red currant jelly onto his venison. ”I don't suffer fools gladly and I won't dress that up.” He gave her a shrewd glance. ”I don't believe you have much time for them either, Arabella.”