Amanda Scott (5 page)

“His Grace has not yet come in from shooting, your lordship,” Bagshaw said. “Lord Michael was a trifle detained by other matters, however, and begged you would forgive him.”

“Certainly, certainly,” Lord Ashby said, grinning at Anne and moving to pick up a wineglass containing a golden liquid. Lifting it, he said, “Care for a drop of sherry, my dear?”

“No, thank you, sir.” She smiled at Bagshaw, adding, “That will be all now, thank you. We won’t keep you from your duties.”

“Thank you, madam.”

When he had gone, she said, “Won’t you sit down, Lord Ashby? I am persuaded that Lord Michael will not keep us waiting long.”

Nor did he. They had been chatting in a friendly way for less than a quarter hour when he entered the room. He had changed his shirt and neckcloth, but otherwise he looked much the same as he had an hour earlier.

Lord Ashby, who had been explaining that he had not attended their wedding because it had been decided that he ought to remain with the young duke, grinned cheerfully at his nephew and said, “Thought you was trying to lay down the law to Andrew again, but Bagshaw says he ain’t come in yet. Just as well, I imagine. I’ve been explaining to your lovely bride that it was thought best for me to stay here. Can’t think it did much good though. Well, stands to reason it didn’t, since that Appleby chap took a pet and left. Boy don’t heed anyone, you know. Goes his own road just like his father and grandfather before him.”

“He will learn to heed me.” Lord Michael spoke quietly, but his tone sent a chill up Anne’s spine. A rumble of thunder outside underscored the sudden tension in the room.

“Bagshaw says he’s still out shooting,” Lord Ashby said doubtfully, casting a frowning glance at the curtained window when the thunder muttered again.

“Yes,” Michael said. “I’ve told them not to wait dinner for him, though, so unless you mean to carry that wine in with you, you’d best drink it down. We will go in at once.”

Lord Ashby downed his wine hastily, pulled a snowy handkerchief from his coat pocket and dabbed at his lips. “Never let good wine go to waste,” he said, grinning at Anne.

Lord Michael made no comment, merely stepping forward to offer his arm to his wife.

She got up at once, and as she laid her fingertips on his coat sleeve, becoming instantly aware of the hard muscle beneath, another rumble of thunder rent the air outside.

Lord Ashby, glancing again at the window, muttered, “Devilish storm’s been muttering for hours. Wish it would get on with whatever it means to get on with, by Jove.”

Anne said, “I was thinking the same a little earlier, sir, but I realized my tirewoman would most likely prefer to be safe and warm within doors before it breaks. She is a little nervous of thunderstorms.”

“Don’t like ’em much myself,” he said amiably.

Approximately ten servants stood in a solemn line outside the doors to the dining room, and Bagshaw presented them to Anne in turn but so swiftly that she would have been hard pressed to recall any of their names immediately afterward. She had no more than an impression of dignity and general nervousness as each curtsied or bowed and murmured a polite greeting.

The interlude was swiftly over. A footman moved to stand by the open doors to the dining room, and as they passed him, Lord Michael said quietly, “Thunder and lightning have no doubt delayed the second coach, for the horses will be nervous, and their driver will have his hands full; but he is quite capable, I promise you. They will be here soon.”

She smiled gratefully, and took her seat where he indicated, a little surprised to find herself sitting at one side of the table rather than at the head or the foot. Then, seeing that the place opposite Lord Michael was left empty, she realized that it was probably where the young duke was accustomed to sit.

Lord Ashby said as he sat down across from her, “Can’t imagine what that boy’s about to have stayed out so long in this weather, by Jove. Light outside is terrible, and the thunder will have sent any game to ground long since.”

Michael glanced at Bagshaw, who stood near the serving door, waiting to oversee the service. When the butler shook his head, Michael said, “If he really is out with a gun, I agree that he cannot be having much luck. He will get hungry soon, however.”

“Probably knows you’re home,” Lord Ashby said wisely.

Michael did not reply, and nothing further was said while the first course was served. Anne observed the dishes and service with a critical eye, but having taken Bagshaw’s measure, was not much surprised to see that everything was just as it should be. Whoever ruled the ducal kitchens seemed to know his or her business as well, and the tempting aromas stirred her to accept at least a small portion of every dish offered to her.

Lord Ashby, signing to a footman to refill his wineglass, said casually, “Hope you ain’t meaning to be too harsh with the boy, Michael. Cuts up all our peace when he’s out of curl.”

“I see no reason to allow a fourteen-year-old boy to run roughshod over everyone in his path,” Lord Michael said.

“He’s not just any fourteen-year-old, by Jove. He’s the Duke of Upminster, so if he’s got a top-lofty notion of his own worth, it’s not to be wondered at. We’re a proud family.”

“You said as much before, Uncle, but I ask you, do you really want to encourage Andrew to follow in his father’s footsteps—or in those of his grandfather?”

“A proud heritage,” Lord Ashby said, drinking deeply.

“Empty pride, if you ask me,” Michael said. “Of what use is pride to a pauper?”

“Here now, you can’t mean that. If Edmund failed to tend to business as he should have, it was only that he never cared for such stuff, and as to his gaming and that dashed inconvenient wager of his, well, that might happen to any man, but you ain’t going to say my father ignored the estates, for I know better.”

“I daresay Grandfather looked after things well enough, though he was scarcely a paragon,” Michael said. “A more stiff-rumped old devil I hope never to encounter.”

Lord Ashby chuckled reminiscently. “He was that. Lord, no one was even allowed to sit in his presence unless it was at table.” Grinning at Anne, he added, “He dozed off once in his bookroom and woke to find that my sister Margaret had dared to sit down to read her book. Disinherited her on the spot.”

“Goodness,” Anne exclaimed, “he must have been a tyrant.”

“Exactly,” Michael said, “and in his own way, my brother was much the same. Thus far, Andrew has been allowed to take that same route, to believe the sun rises and sets by his wish. I have tried being firm with him but have not wanted to interfere too harshly so soon after his father’s death; however, now that Appleby has gone the way of his predecessors …” He glanced at Lord Ashby. “What happened this time?”

Gesturing for more wine, Lord Ashby said, “Same as last time. Fellow got tired of having insults hurled at him—books too, I shouldn’t wonder. Andrew ain’t much interested in reading them, at all events.”

“But surely,” Anne began, only to fall silent when she realized she was speaking of something that did not yet concern her. She bit her lip, looking apologetically at her husband.

He said evenly, “No doubt you are surprised to hear of a tutor who allows his charge to throw things.”

“Well, yes,” she admitted. “I certainly was never permitted to throw anything at my governess.” She gave a little shudder at the thought of what her father’s reaction to such behavior would have been, from any of his children.

“A harsh woman, your governess?” Lord Ashby asked.

“Not really,” Anne said, “but each week we had to tell Papa what had transpired during the week, and if Miss Turner had to punish us, he would always do so again, so my sisters and I took good care to obey her. Our brothers went away to school, to Harrow. Do His Grace’s tutors
never
correct him?”

Astonished, Lord Ashby said, “By Jove, who would dare raise a hand to Upminster?”

“I see,” Anne said, though she did not.

Michael said, “No other Duke of Upminster has come into his position at the age of fourteen, however, and say what you will, Uncle, even Edmund’s selfishness was curtailed to some extent before my father died. If we are to prevent Andrew from becoming utterly impossible, something must be done, and soon. But we need not dwell on that at present. What other news is there?”

Lord Ashby hesitated, then said rather quickly, “Well, as a matter of fact there was something I wanted to speak to you about, but perhaps we’d do better to talk later, after you’ve had your dinner and a chance to relax a bit.”

“How much?” Michael asked in a tone of resignation.

“Now don’t fly into the boughs,” Lord Ashby said hastily. “Inflammable air’s dashed expensive!”

Meeting Anne’s look of astonishment, Michael said, “My uncle is not content to have his head in the clouds. He must needs put his feet up there as well.”

Lord Ashby chuckled self-consciously, but before Anne could request further explanation, a new voice said from the doorway, “Well, this is a fine thing! Since when is dinner in
my
house put forward without so much as a by-your-leave from
me?”

Andrew, seventh Duke of Upminster, Marquis of Tissington, Earl of Farnham, Baron St. Ledgers and Baron Grinstead of Elstow, stood glaring at them from the doorway, his glossy dark curls damp and tumbling over his broad forehead, his gray eyes wide and as stormy as the skies outside. He was a thin boy who, though he looked to be a bit taller than Anne, had not yet enjoyed that spurt of growth common to his age. Looking at Lord Michael, ignoring both Anne and Lord Ashby, his belligerent expression challenged his uncle to reply.

With an edge to his voice, Michael said, “Try for a little conduct, Andrew, and make your leg to Lady Michael.”

“It is her duty to curtsy to me,” Andrew said defiantly, “and you ought to present her properly to me first.”

“His Grace is quite right, my lord,” Anne said calmly, getting to her feet as Elbert leapt to hold her chair. Sweeping the boy a deep curtsy, she said as she arose and held out her hand to him, “I hope you will call me Anne, Your Grace. I am sorry you were unable to attend our wedding.”

Mollified and clearly surprised by her gesture, the young duke took her hand perfunctorily, released it at once, and said, “Since I am still in mourning for my father and mother, I believe it would have been inappropriate for me to attend any wedding. Is there lamb tonight, Bagshaw?” he asked, turning to the butler.

“Yes, indeed, Your Grace.”

The boy moved to take his place opposite Lord Michael, and Anne sat down again, refusing to be ruffled by his rudeness and glancing at her husband to see if her action had displeased him.

He said, “Lady Michael’s wineglass is empty, Elbert.”

“Yes, my lord.” The footman sprang to refill it.

Anne did not want more wine. Encouraged by the fact that Lord Michael sounded much as usual, she said, “I hope you mean to explain what you were saying, sir. What is inflammable air, if you please, and how can Lord Ashby put his feet in the clouds?”

Andrew looked up from the platter of sliced lamb being held for his inspection and said, “But surely you must know that Great-Uncle Ashby is the greatest aeronaut in all England!”

“A
RE YOU TRULY AN
aeronaut, sir?” Anne demanded, fascinated.

Lord Michael snorted, but Lord Ashby shrugged with an air of spurious modesty and said, “I am, indeed, though the lad flatters me. Do you know much about aeronautics, young woman?”

“Practically nothing,” Anne said frankly. “I once watched a balloon ascension from Hyde Park, but I know nothing about them. Isn’t going up in one a very dangerous thing to do?”

“Very foolish is what it is,” Michael said.

“Now, by Jove, you mustn’t say that, lad. Only think what air power could mean to the military! That damned Bonaparte could scarcely afford to defend himself against ten thousand men descending from the clouds, now could he?”

“I wish I may see it,” Michael said. “Your ten thousand are as likely to end up in Scotland or Norway as in France, sir. The only thing an aeronaut can control is whether he goes up or down, and he doesn’t always have much choice even about that. Balloons—or aerostats, as you choose to call them—are little more than toys, in my opinion, and can serve no useful purpose until you aeronauts learn to guide them properly.”

“But that is precisely why I must continue my experiments,” Lord Ashby said earnestly. “It’s as plain as a pikestaff that the time will come when we
can
use them to good purpose. Bound to happen, don’t you know? Can’t stop progress.” He beamed at Anne. “Michael is one who would have scoffed at the wheel before it was perfected, but I want to ride the tide of progress as it flows into the future. Man cannot stop it any more than he can stop the course of Mother Nature. Take that storm brewing outside, for example. If I muttered and grumbled back at it each time it raised its voice, do you suppose it would pay me the slightest heed?”

“None,” Andrew replied before Anne could speak. “What’s more, I believe you are right about military use, too.” He shot Michael a defiant glance. “There will come a day when soldiers will attack from the sky, and I just hope they will be good Englishmen and not the villainous French. I’d never deny you support for your experiments, Uncle Ashby, if only I controlled my fortune. England must control the skies as fiercely as she controls the sea.”

“How dreadful,” Anne said, shaken by this casual talk of more war. Then, seeing the offended look on Andrew’s face, she added quickly, “Not your belief in England, sir, certainly, but the very thought of such an aerial attack on unsuspecting, innocent people. It never entered my mind, when I saw that gaily decorated balloon soar aloft from Hyde Park, that such a contrivance might one day be converted into an engine of destruction.”

Lord Ashby said solemnly, “Bound to happen one day, never doubt it, and balloons won’t be employed merely to take men into battle either. Two years ago a fellow actually took a horse aloft with him. Just a matter of time, I’ll wager, till we put whole armies into the sky.”