Slowly she slipped her hand over his immaculate sleeve, and they went up the flight of three shallow stone steps to the dark blue door. Rowan raised the gleaming brass knocker, and rapped it twice. After a moment a rather flustered maid admitted them.
The shadowy hall behind her was hazy with the noxious smoke, and there came the clatter of footsteps and the sound of renewed quacking as the harassed Dr. Bethel, clad in his black master’s robe, ushered the two miscreants—one of whom carried an indignant mallard drake under his arm—down the staircase to his study on the ground floor.
That Peregrine was an Arnold there could never be any doubt, for he was tall, handsome, bronzed, and golden like his sire and uncle, but there, as Marigold had happily observed on countless occasions, the similarity ended.
Perry wasn’t sly and cruel, but warm and thoughtful, and he had her expressive green eyes rather than the cold amber of Merlin and Falk. He wore a short charcoal tailcoat and gray pantaloons with Hessian boots, and a sky blue waistcoat with a plainly knotted neckcloth.
Marigold glowed with pride. How handsome he was, and how much more handsome would he be when he was a man grown. He was a veritable Greek god in the making. Oh, how many hearts he would break when he entered society. The train of thought broke off sharply as she realized what a difference her brief acquaintance with Rowan had made. From the depths of despair and want, suddenly she was again anticipating her son’s entry into society!
Her glance moved to her son’s companion in crime. Percy Bysshe Shelley—he of the mallard—was thin, freckled, and awkward, with a long face and a markedly large nose. He was dressed in a navy blue coat and fawn pantaloons, and his neckcloth had come undone due to the constant exertions of the wriggling drake. His blue eyes were wide and rather startled, and his shoulder-length brown hair hung in curled girlish profusion.
Her first impression was that he seemed even less likely than Perry to be a blower up of tree stumps, a raiser of devils, or conductor of dangerous experiments.
Dr. Bethel, a small, mild-featured man with graying hair and a worn expression, had clearly been driven to the end of his tether by his two high-spirited charges. “Well, sirs, well, sirs,” he was saying, “I begin to hope you will both succumb to this epidemic of chicken pox and have to be sent home to recuperate, for I believe that is the only way I will again enjoy some semblance of peace!”
Perry suddenly saw Marigold. “Mama!” he cried, and forgot Dr. Bethel as he ran to hug her. But then he realized she wasn’t alone, and drew back in puzzlement, looking at Rowan. “Sir?”
Marigold hastened to effect an introduction. “Rowan, may I present my son, Peregrine Arnold? Perry, this is Lord Avenbury.”
Perry looked inquiringly at Marigold the moment she addressed Rowan by his first name, but remembered his manners, and bowed his head. “I’m honored to meet you, sir.”
“I’m honored to meet you too, sir,” Rowan replied.
Before anything more could be said, the drake began to quack frantically. Perry’s friend struggled to silence it as it flapped and struggled in his arms, and he eventually kept it quiet only by clamping his hand tightly over its bill. Two feathers drifted to the floor as the unfortunate mallard continued to wriggle, but at last it subsided, contenting itself with a series of darkly disgruntled half quacks that told everyone exactly what it thought of the human race.
As soon as he had the disheveled drake more or less under control, Percy Bysshe Shelley stepped excitedly toward Rowan. “Lord Avenbury?
The
Lord Avenbury?” he breathed, as if in the presence of a supernatural being.
Rowan was clearly dismayed, although he hastily dissembled. “Well, I know of no other Lord Avenbury.”
“The cursed lord? The one whose ancestor brought the vengeance of the druids upon his line? The one who fears nothing and gazes death in the eye without a flicker of fear or remorse?” The boy spoke with almost ghoulish relish, but then had to grapple again with the determined mallard.
Perry rounded sharply on his friend. “You shouldn’t ask such things, Bysshe!”
But Bysshe only pressed the question.
“Are
you that Lord Avenbury?”
Rowan glanced fleetingly at Marigold. “Yes, I suppose I am indeed that Lord Avenbury,” he murmured reluctantly.
She looked at him in astonishment.
Cursed
lord? She certainly did not believe in such things, but it was clear that the subject rattled him considerably. When Falk had referred to him as doomed, she had presumed it was on account of Alauda’s proven record of casting unwanted lovers aside. Maybe that wasn’t Falk’s meaning after all. And when she thought a little more, that very dawn she herself had seen Rowan look death in the eye without a flicker of fear or remorse!
Bysshe was too excited to halt now. “I have Stukeley’s book on the curse, indeed I believe I know it line for line.”
Rowan looked as if he could have strangled the boy. “That wretched little scribble has an annoying habit of surfacing now and then,” he said, then cleared his throat and firmly changed the subject. “Now then, Mr. Shelley, I fancy it is time you extended a suitably contrite apology to Dr. Bethel.”
Loath to abandon such an intensely interesting subject, but afraid to argue with a peer of the realm, Bysshe turned to the master. “We’re truly sorry, sir,” he said dutifully, looking every inch the picture of schoolboy guilt. Perry murmured the same words, then fixed his gaze firmly upon the floor.
The drake flapped as Dr. Bethel drew a regretful breath. “Forgive me, my lord, Mrs. Arnold, but as you will have gathered, there has been yet another unfortunate occurrence here today. I regret that I can no longer let such matters pass, indeed I have no alternative but to report both your son and Master Shelley to Dr. Keate.”
“Oh, dear. Must you really?” Marigold envisaged her son being flogged within an inch of his life, like a mutineer upon the high seas.
The doctor glanced at the maid, who waited nearby, keeping a wary eye on the drake. “That will be all, Bessie.”
“Yes, sir.” Still watching the mallard, she bobbed a curtsy and hastened thankfully away.
Dr. Bethel turned then to the two boys. “Your immediate punishment can wait, but you are to return to the scene of devastation above, and clean every inch of it yourselves. Is that clear, sirs?”
“Yes, sir,” they mumbled in unison.
“Be off with you then. And take that monstrous duck back where you found it!” With that the doctor turned toward the study door, but as he stretched out to the gleaming brass knob, Bysshe uttered a strangulated warning yelp.
“No, sir! Don’t touch it!”
He was too late. Dr. Bethel’s fingers closed upon the knob, and there was a blue flash, accompanied by a crackling sound. The unfortunate doctor shot backward across the hall, and fell to the floor against a table upon which stood a vase of overblown roses. He was showered with petals and water as the vase teetered, but thankfully did not fall.
The two boys were speechless with dismay as Rowan helped the shaken master to his feet. Marigold hurried over as well. “Have you been hurt, Dr. Bethel?” she asked anxiously, taking out a handkerchief and mopping some water from his black robe.
“Only my dignity, dear lady, only my dignity,” he replied, retrieving his aplomb in that singular way learned by teachers through the centuries.
Rowan examined the doorknob, around which a telltale length of copper wire had been wrapped. The wire led to the hinge of the door, then disappeared into the study beyond, where Bysshe or Perry had no doubt arranged the implements necessary to create the new Italian electrical invention known as a voltaic battery. He looked at the boys. “Your handiwork, sirs?”
Bysshe spoke quickly. “It was me, sir, Perry had nothing to do with it.” The drake made a noise like a sneeze, and shook its head so that its head feathers stood up. Fearing another onslaught of quacking, the boy gripped its bill with his hand.
Rowan raised an eyebrow. “Well, Master Shelley, it would almost seem you are hell-bent upon explusion.”
Bysshe gave him an imploring look. “It was just a prank, sir.”
“A highly dangerous one.”
“It was meant for Bessie, not Dr. Bethel,” Bysshe protested.
Rowan was outraged. “Shame on you, sir! What on earth has the poor maid done to warrant such disagreeable attention?”
Bysshe swallowed. “It—it wasn’t meant to hurt her, sir. She goes into the study at the same time every day to refill Dr. Bethel’s sherry, and I meant to observe from the top of the staircase. Unfortunately, one of my other experiments caught fire, and I couldn’t leave my room. I—I didn’t know the current would be so strong. I just wanted to see if it was true that her hair would stand on end. It—it was another experiment.”
Rowan eyed him. “What if I were to wonder right now if
your
delightful curls would stand on end in similar circumstances?”
“Mine, sir?”
“Yes. Pray take hold of the doorknob.”
Bysshe’s eyes widened. “Oh, but—”
“Come now, sir, where is your backbone? If it is of scientific value when a mere maid touches it, just think how much more weighty and respected the results would be if
you
were the subject.” Rowan folded his arms. “I’m waiting, Master Shelley.”
The drake eyed the boy, and quacked with relish, but Bysshe swallowed cravenly. “I—I’d rather not, if you don’t mind, sir.”
The ghost of a smile played upon Rowan’s lips. “The scientific benefits cease to appeal when yours are the dainty fingers that will suffer, eh, sir?”
Bysshe hung his head, and Rowan looked at Perry. “Were you party to this?” Guilt was written large upon the face of Marigold’s son as he too hung his head. Rowan drew a long breath. “I think you should both again apologize most humbly to Dr. Bethel, then go to your room to clear up the undoubted mess therein. After that you will do penance to Bessie. Whether or not you are permitted to stay on here, or indeed whether or not you have to face Dr. Keate’s wrath, remains to be seen.”
“Yes, sir,” they replied together, and then turned to face poor Dr. Bethel, who was still covered with rose petals. Their expressions of regret were very ashamed indeed, and when they ascended the staircase once more, their heads were bowed in remorse. The drake could still be heard long after they had disappeared from view.
Rowan looked at the unfortunate master. “Sir, is there anything I can say or do which will induce you to be lenient?”
“I doubt it, sir, I doubt it very much,” came the heartfelt reply.
Rowan glanced at the door again. “On arriving, I noticed that the window to this room had been left slightly open. With your leave, I will enter by that means, and dismantle the apparatus on the door.”
“I would be grateful, Lord Avenbury.”
Rowan turned, and went outside. A minute or so later, the copper wire was pulled from the other side, then the door opened, and Dr. Bethel and Marigold went inside. It was a jumbled room, its walls lined with bookshelves, and there was a huge desk topped with green leather standing in the center.
Various armchairs were in evidence, as was a rather battered harpsichord, with piles of music sheets and well-worn keys that bore witness to its frequent use. Bysshe’s voltaic battery, which consisted of the copper wire, and a small stack of alternating plates of copper, zinc, and moistened pasteboard, had been carefully dismantled, and replaced in a wooden box, then covered with a crumpled sheet of brown paper.
Rowan assisted Marigold to a chair, and whispered suddenly to her. “I think I may be able to extricate our two demonic young scientists from this. Would you like me to try?”
“If you think you can help, I would be most grateful,” she replied, for she felt quite out of place in these peculiarly male circumstances.
Rowan turned to usher the still-shaken doctor to another chair. After pressing a glass of good sherry into the master’s hand, he went to the harpsichord and played a finger upon several keys. “Tell me, doctor, what would you say to owning an instrument that was once owned by Handel himself?”
The doctor lowered his glass, and turned to look at him. “By Handel, you say?”
“Yes. It’s a particularly elegant harpsichord, and has been maintained in the finest order. No one uses it now, which is a great shame, but I am certain you would fully appreciate its qualities.”
Dr. Bethel surveyed him shrewdly. “And in return for this fine instrument... ?”
“You could overlook today’s regrettable occurrences.”
The doctor smiled. “I’m sorely tempted, sir, just as you knew I would be, but may I be so bold as to inquire why you wish to do this? As far as I am aware, you are not connected with either boy.”
“I have the honor to be Perry’s future stepfather,” Rowan replied.
The doctor’s jaw dropped. “Indeed?” He looked quickly at Marigold, belatedly recalling her all-too-recent widowhood.
“Do we have an agreement, sir?” Rowan pressed skillfully.
The carrot was taken. “We do indeed, sir.”
“Excellent.”
* * *
A little later, Marigold walked alone with Perry in the doctor’s garden. Sunlight was dappled through the leaves of a weeping willow overhanging the small stream that formed the garden’s boundary, and at last Marigold reluctantly came to the point of her visit.
The coming few minutes wouldn’t be at all easy, especially as she feared her news concerning Rowan might stir a dormant sense of honor in her son toward his hitherto intensely disliked sire. She sat down on the grassy bank, where daisies were scattered like tiny white stars. “Perry, there is something I must tell you.”
He smothered a huge yawn, then said quickly, “Forgive me, Mama, I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“What’s wrong? Aren’t you sleeping well?”
“I sleep excellently. I really don’t know what’s the matter with me today. Bysshe feels the same. We’re peculiarly tired. I hope it’s the chicken pox.” He leaned back against the willow.
“You
hope
it’s the chicken pox?”