The Lion's Daughter (47 page)

“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 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 siting 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 mo
ment
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 discovered. 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
27

DAMON
WAS ON MOUNT EDEN'S ROOF PATCHING 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, “Das
h
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. Var
ian
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, openmouthed, 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
—”

He
broke off as the low voices within grew louder. Cautiously Damon
opened the door another fraction of an inch.

At
that instant, the little girl hurled her reticule at his brother.

Varian
ducked aside, and the reticule bounced against the mantel, then onto
the floor. The girl began pacing furiously, in a whirl of green
skirts, and her voice burst out at full volume.

“I
shall
never
forgive
you!” she raged. “You are impossible. Your stupidity is
immense beyond belief. Also, you are a great, filthy
liar!”

“
Esme,
I did not
—”

“
You
lied!
There, I have said it. Will
you defend your
honor?
Go ahead, find your pistols. And
I shall find my own and shoot you through your black heart. And with
better reason. It is
I
who am dishonored. You have
shamed me. All the world will laugh at me
—
more
loudly than they do now.”

She
spat out something in a foreign language, and Varian started to move
toward her. Her hand went up, waving him back “Do not come
near me,” she warned. “Do not tempt me. I shall strangle
you.”

Varian
subsided, to lean against the mantel once more and watch her march to
and fro, her heels making a steady drumbeat on
the bare floor.

She
went on with another stream of what could only be vituperation,
then recommenced in English. “Three letters every week you
send me, and never once do you tell me the the truth. Only stories
and jokes
—
as
though I am a child, to be amused. Your debts were paid. There was no
more of the danger you spoke of
—
as
though I care about danger. But you tell me nothing. You leave me
with my grandmother, which is a great disgrace in my country, but I
bear it because this is another country and all the English are
crazy.” “Darling, I hadn't any way to keep you.”

“I
do not need keeping! I am not a sheep or an ox. How do you think I
have lived in my country with no money? I have slept in caves and
under bushes. But I know what it is.” She stopped short. “I
am not a child, nor yet a weak woman. You could have told me the
truth, that you did not want me with you. But your conceit is even
more vast than your stupidity. Did you think I would die of grief?”
She marched up to him and folded her hands across her bosom. “Hah!”