Master Of Paradise (2 page)

Nicholas arrived close upon the heels of his young brother. He would never offer his stepmother the discourtesy of being late. He bent his dark head and brushed a dutiful kiss across her brow and marveled for the thousandth time how such a cool, elegant and quiet lady of breeding came to be the wife of his full-bloodied, powerful, rather vulgar father.

Lady Pamela murmured a soft greeting to welcome Nicholas at the table. She was always serene; her face set in a lovely, pleasing, half-smile, that displayed no emotion whatever.

Lord Harry strode in now, late as usual. Philip shrank into himself slightly, but his father's eyes passed over him, unseeing, as he briskly made his way to the head of the table. He was shorter and thicker than his attractive son, Nicholas, and his temper was much quicker, always ready there beneath the surface to erupt at a moment's provocation. He was a handsome man, or had been in his younger salad days, before a passion for claret and port had turned his complexion florid. He kissed Lady Pamela's cheek absently, murmuring, "M'dear," and turned his attention to the light of his life, Nicholas.

"By God, I knew you'd get it done while I was away. Superb job, Nick. Couldn't have done it better m'self!" His eyes took in Nicholas's flawless formal evening clothes with appreciation. "Glad you didn't forget we're playing cards at Knole tonight," he boomed.

Nick looked him straight in the eye. "Actually, I did. I planned to go up to London tonight."

Harry banged his beefy fist on the table, making Philip jump and his wife press her lips together slightly. "Damn it all, no! Make an exception for your poor old man, Nick. I'll tell you why. Lord Sackville has Prince Edward staying with him and you know what an unholy passion he has for Baccarat. I'd like to whip him clean, stap me if I wouldn't. But I don't stand a chance in Hell of doing it. Sorry for the language m'dear. But you could beat him hollow, Nick. It would give me damned near as much satisfaction if you did it!"

Nick's eyes, an odd shade of aqua between blue and green, which his father insisted were Peacock blue, watched his father's enthusiasm closely. "Well, I prefer Faro or Vingt et un, but go on, if you were counting on me, I'll come."

"Good lad. Let the lass in London wait, she'll be panting after ye harder than ever."

At Nick's slight warning frown, Harry bethought himself and again said, "Oh yes quite, forgive my indelicate reference to the
demi-mond
e. Ye should be used to my slips by now, Pamela."

All the while the two men were discussing their affairs, Lady Pamela directed the footmen to serve by imperceptible signals. She had trained them well in their duties, so that the meal proceeded smoothly from the soup course, through the fish, and on through the main, so unobtrusive were their movements.

"Harry," Lady Pamela's lovely modulated voice said low, "the peacocks were in my herb garden again."

"Damned place holds a fascination for them." He laughed heartily at the mischief they caused, then he advised, "Get one of the gardeners' children to stand guard and shoo them out. 'Tis a simple enough matter, surely."

She sighed. She realized it was hopeless to expect him to get rid of the noisy, destructive peacocks, as they had become symbolic of the place and of Lord Harry's own pride. She gave Philip the look that meant he was to make interesting dinner conversation with his father, then lowered her eyes demurely. Nicholas noticed her profile and the golden hair folded into its graceful chignon and the only word that he could think of to describe her was
perfection.

Philip searched his mind desperately, then picked up on the fact that his father would be seeing Prince Edward.

"The Prince of Wales's brother is at Eton with me this year."

Harry snorted. "The sheer numbers of the Royal progeny never cease to amaze me. How do ye keep 'em all straight?" he quipped.

At mention of Eton, Nick's thoughts sped back to the day three years ago when he had had a man-to-man talk with his father about not returning to school.

"Father, I hate the damned place, and most of the thick-headed fags who go there. I don't intend to go on to Cambridge this year. So let's hear your thundering match now and clear the air. What I really want to do is start learning the management of this place. There's nothing like first-hand, practical experience. You've done it so long, it comes naturally, but it's a vast undertaking, and I might just as well learn sooner as later."

His father's eyes became pained as he sat him down and furnished him with the facts of life.

"Nick, there's something I should have told you long ago, and I'm a damned scoundrel not to have done so. Pure cowardice on my part, if you want the truth."

Nicholas knew he was somehow the cause of his father's anguish and wished he could ease the telling of this thing that lay heavily upon the older man. He grinned encouragement to his father. "Come on Harry; I can face it if you can."

"The fact of the matter is, I made the biggest mistake of my life by not marrying your mother." He let that sink in for a moment or two.

I'm a bastard,
thought Nicholas, incredulously.
I can't believe I've been in ignorance all these years,
he thought dispassionately.

Lord Harry looked his son straight in the eyes. "The past cannot be altered, or I would alter it, so help me God! At the time I chose not to marry a girl beneath my station and chose instead a lady of high birth who fitted perfectly into the social mileau of Peacock Hall. So you see Nicholas, Philip is my legal heir; he'll get the title, the Hall, everything. No, not everything," he amended. "I shall see that you get plenty of money and property of your own, but you will never be the Lord of Peacock Hall." He shook his head regretfully. "The Fates have paid me back a thousandfold, giving me Philip for heir, rather than the son I love and cherish."

Nicholas said what he always said at mention of his brother, "Philip isn't so bad." Then he asked, "My mother-- she is dead, isn't she? You didn't lie to me about that?"

"I'm sorry to say that she is in truth dead. God rest her soul."

"Well," Nick shrugged, "what's the difference if my brother has title to the place? It will still need a deal of managing."

His father looked at him proudly, "I'll say this for ye, bastard or no, you're a real man." He assured him, "I'll set up a trust fund for when you reach your majority. I'll put in enough so it will accumulate to about a hundred thousand pounds by the time you reach twenty-five." Harry winked at his son. "I'll put a safeguard on what I leave you so you can't touch a penny before you're twenty-five. A young rogue would have it all spent on horses and wenches!"

Nick grinned. "Never had to pay for it yet, Father.

"By God, I'd hope not. A lusty young stud like you? Why stap me, half the women in London would pay you. You're like a young Apollo."

Nicholas dragged his thoughts back from the past to hear the cool, remote tones of Lady Pamela say reprovingly, "Harry, you may inform Lady Sackville that I am quite put off at her not giving a formal dinner for the prince."

"Ah, can't do that m'dear. The visit is supposed to be a secret. The poor chap is so fawned upon by hostesses, the fellow never gets an informal moment to relax." Harry rubbed his finger alongside his nose. "So remember, mum's the word."

Philip, who had been listlessly toying with his food, cast Nicholas an imploring glance and Nick immediately nodded his understand. As soon as he got his father alone, he would plead Philip's case for a thoroughbred and some lessons in gun handling. He knew he could sway his father, and hoped that Harry would be able to overcome Lady Pamela's gentle sensitivities.

Before they arose from the dining table, she inquired politely, "Shall I order the carriage, Harry?"

"Carriage?" he demanded incredulously. "We shall ride as usual." He gave no thought to Nick's evening clothes, and indeed would similarly adorn his person before going to Knole to spend the evening with the prince. Harry thought carriages were for women and old men, and never tired of saying so.

Lady Pamela reproved gently, "If you are riding Harry, try not to overindulge."

Harry's face grew redder than its usual wont and the loudness of his voice increased apace. "I should hope I can still hold my liquor, though I fail to see what possible difference it makes to you when you insist we keep separate bedrooms," he said bluntly.

Not by the flicker of an eyelash did she react to his coarse remark in front of his sons, and Nicholas again marveled at her unruffled poise.

On the way to the stables, Harry chuckled richly, "Can't wait to see their faces when you clean them out. 'Tis no wonder they dub you 'Old Nick', ye've the Devil's own luck!"

"Skill Father, skill!" Nick grinned and changed the subject. "By the way, it's high time Philip graduated from ponies. The way he's mounted is a disgrace. He needs a thoroughbred, and it's no good giving me the argument he can't handle one, because he never will until he gets the chance. He's dying to learn how to shoot. If you are too busy, I don't mind giving him lessons."

"Hah! There'd be hell to pay. The woman shields him behind her skirts to the point of indecency."

The two large bays cantered along close enough for a conversation between father and son with only a slight raising of their voices.

"Father, he's your son. You've only to say the word and your word is law. You speak as if Lady Pamela was a shrew, when in point of fact she gently acquiesces to all your wishes."

"Not all," he said drily, and Nicholas grinned into the darkness as his graphic imagination pictured how earthy some of his father's wishes would be.

Knole, which had been built in the fifteenth century, was one of the largest private houses in England. Their arrival coincided with that of their neighbors from the other great houses in the district, who'd come for the high-stakes game.

Lord Bora and his son Perry, followed upon the heels of Viscount De L'Isle from Penshurst, Sir Oliver Dyke from Edenbridge Castle, and Francis Child, the world-famous banker.

As the large group of men entered the splendid Jacobean interior of Knole, there was general confusion in the entrance hall and cloakroom. A sweet little Irish maid was in attendance inside the cloakroom to receive the guests evening capes, which were being removed by the head footman. Nicholas took advantage of the momentary confusion to slip into the cloakroom and steal a quick kiss.

The mere sight of Nick Peacock's darkly handsome face took her breath away, but when his powerful arms stole about her to lift her from her feet, she was covered with blushes and giggles. She uttered the exact opposite of what she really wanted. "Stop it, sor! Master Nick, you'll get me the sack!" By the saints, if she ever got the chance to be with him, she'd let him have his way, whatever he asked. What memories he'd provide for the bleak nights of her old age!

Nick winked at her as his father entered. He knew she would have been mad as fire if he'd ignored her. His grin widened to show the flash of white teeth as he heard her gasp behind him. His father had probably just felt her bottom, or worse.

The gaming room was actually the library. A magnificent collection of books lined the paneled walls in two tiers; the upper tier housed in a gallery with ornate railings. Very few of the books were ever actually read. The maids thought books were for dusting.

The green baize gaming table received much more use by far than the reading tables. A welcoming fire blazed on the hearth and was flanked by sideboards well stocked with bottles, snifters and decanters of the best wine and liquors from half-a-dozen countries.

Ten players sat around the card table, the six packs of cards were shuffled, cut and placed in the 'shoe' or dealing box that released one card at a time, face down. Their host, old Hugh Sackville, opted to play croupier, which meant he would not participate in the play, except to assist the players in making and settling their bets, and to quote to them the mathematical advisability of alternate plays.

The right to deal first was put up to auction, and the banker Francis Child bid highest. He announced the amount of his bank at stake. Each player made a small wager, then Nicholas called "Banco" so negligently, he almost sounded bored. Banco meant he had accepted the dealer's entire bank as a wager.

Nicholas chose not to bet on the right or left hand, but instead bet a cheval, which meant that he won only if the dealer beat both hands against him. When the coup was in Nick's favor, Lord Harry couldn't keep the grin of delight from his face. Now it was Nick's bank and he dealt out the three hands, to the right, left and to himself with an indifference that belied his skill at the game. His bank grew steadily and Prince Edward grew red in the face because he lost. This had never, ever happened to him before as everyone in deference to his Royalty always let him win. Tonight this did not happen; he had reckoned without Nicholas Peacock.

The stakes were high and the drinking deep. The room was filled with the blue poll of cigar smoke. A player was allowed to retain the deal until the total amount of his original bank had been lost, but on the contrary, Nicholas had doubled and then tripled his bank, and since there was no indication of his losing his bank after two hour's play, he voluntarily retired.

Since the new dealer on his left was Droopy George, the prince's attendant, Nicholas pocketed his money and thought he'd stretch his legs and take a breath of air. He slipped up the staircase to the second floor bathroom to wash his hands and as he walked along the hall to go back downstairs, a woman's voice came to him from an open bedroom. Lady Elinor was a regal-looking woman, much younger than Lord Sackville.

As he looked in, he saw her sitting on the edge of the bed, her skirts drawn to one side to display a pair of trim ankles and calves.