The Viscount's Wicked Ways Page 3
Lady Caroline clapped her hands together. “Excellent. I would be delighted if you would call me Caroline. Tomorrow after you rise and breakfast, I will take you all on a cursory tour of the castle and grounds, then we can discuss your plans in a more detailed fashion.”
“That would be wonderful,” Patience replied, and even Mrs. Tecking looked interested.
“Patience, you have met my nephew, Viscount Blackfield?”
“Briefly in the hall.” Patience tried not to fidget with her teacup.
“Yes, well…” Caroline hesitated. “Thomas is not a collector, and he is often preoccupied by estate business.”
The statement was awkward. Was she being asked to forgive any rudeness on Blackfield’s part? If there was one thing Patience was accustomed to, it was eccentrics.
“Giving away my secrets already, Caroline?”
All of them turned to the drawing room door, where Lord Blackfield stood, resplendent in a hunter green coat and snug brown breeches. Patience was able to examine him in real light for the first time. His hair was in better order, but it still fell with a rakish messiness. He looked powerful and masculine, with broad shoulders and strong body lines. No dandy here. She was pleased to note that if she looked closely enough she could see damp spots on his breeches where they brushed his shiny Hessians. Must not have had time to change, no, peel off, his breeches, as indecent as they were.
She looked back up to see him staring at her, eyebrow raised at where she’d been gazing. She colored and focused on a spot above his left shoulder.
“Lord Blackfield, may I present Miss Harrington, Mr. Fenton, and Mr. and Mrs. Tecking.”
He nodded and bowed in turn. “Welcome to the castle. I hope you will enjoy your stay with us.”
With his tone somewhere between cold and frigid, Patience somehow doubted his words.
The ornate gold clock that stretched across the mantel chimed. Lady Caroline gasped. “Oh, goodness, look at the hour. Where are my manners? After your exhausting ride, I should let you retire for the evening. I will have Kenfield assign someone to show you the way. The castle can be a labyrinth of twists and turns, so unless you are feeling adventurous, pull a bell cord, and the staff will guide you to the dining room in the morning.”
Lord Blackfield politely chatted with John and Mrs. Tecking, who both expressed their delight in staying at the castle. Patience hung back and watched Mr. Tecking poke an elephant umbrella stand near the door, while Caroline went to speak with the butler.
Although polite, Patience would bet that Blackfield had waited until he knew they were about to retire before making his entrance. They were obviously unwanted guests as far as he was concerned.
Caroline returned with maids assigned to guide each of them. Blackfield gave Patience an unreadable glance as she followed her assigned maid from the room.
The young woman accompanying Patience seemed a bit skittish, and her behavior made Patience slightly nervous. As they separated from the others on the second staircase and headed toward rooms in the west wing of the castle, she seemed to peer anxiously into every nook and cranny and cautiously around every corner.
The wing was furbished entirely in midnight blues and blood reds. The farther they walked, the more the lighting dimmed and the shadows grew. The shadows began to take shape, and gnarled red fingers curved along the dark ceiling frescoes and walls. Statues snarled from sharp alcoves inset in the walls, and Patience edged away from the sides of the corridors. Flickering sconces shaded the features of cherubs, making them appear more like demons fallen to earth.
Suddenly, the maid skirted left, and a suit of armor on the right lurched forward, its lance falling directly toward Patience. Patience backed against the wall, her hand over her mouth to stifle a scream as the heavy pole bore down to strike her. She shut her eyes for the blow.
“Miss?”
Patience pried her eyes open. The wide-eyed servant was backed against the wall on the other side. Her shaking hands clutched her lamp as she waited for Patience to acknowledge her.
Patience glanced back at the suit of armor. There was nothing amiss or out of place. The lance was upright, its movement a trick of the moving light.
She took a deep breath. “Pardon me. I was just a bit startled.”
The maid nodded apprehensively.
“How—how long have you worked here?” Patience asked. The young woman seemed frightened out of her wits. And although Patience had a vivid imagination, she had to think that the maid’s anxiety was rubbing off on her and influencing her reactions in some way. Maybe the maid was scared of the dark.
“Just this past month,” the maid said in a near whisper.
Patience nodded. Perhaps her response was due to the size and shape of the castle, the expanse of hallways, the sheer magnitude of rooms, the drafts and strange noises. Lord knew that most people were not accustomed to working and living in a castle. Patience sure wasn’t, and therefore she had looked upon her time here as an experience to relish.
The maid moved on, her steps edgy and awkward. The fabric of her dress swayed and rubbed across the floor as she skittered down the corridor. Patience examined the geometric designs in the railings and floors, catching glimpses of the odd feral cupid at the edges of her vision. That’s it. She was cutting off her supply of Radcliffe novels while on this trip.
With a small sigh of relief, they finally reached her room where Tilly was waiting. The castle maid literally ran off, and Tilly raised a brow in inquiry as she shut the door.
Patience’s room was beautiful. Lush and warm, done in dark greens, blues, and deep wood tones. A large oriental rug dominated the floor, and the coverlet on the bed reflected its intricate designs. Patience poked around the corners and even looked under the bed, much to Tilly’s amusement.
“Did you speak with the castle staff, Tilly?”
“Oui, ma petite. They are nice, but cautious. I do not know if it is the storm that causes them this wariness, but they aren’t terribly forthcoming.”
“And Mrs. Tecking’s maid?”
“As frigid as her mistress, ma petite.”
“Tilly!”
Her maid blinked innocently. “Oui, ma belle?”
Patience shook her head. “You are incorrigible.”
After several minutes’ further discussion of the accommodations and servants, and a warm glass of milk, Patience readied for bed, then bid good night to her maid.
Walking to the window, she brushed aside the heavy emerald window covering and strained to see across the darkened expanse at the rear of the estate. A bolt of lightning flashed, and she heard a thunderous boom seconds later. And again. And again. And again. Four times in rapid succession. Patience shook her head to clear her thoughts. Bursts of thunder coming so quickly upon one another was not normal, Radcliffe novels or not.
She again peered through the glass and saw what she thought to be lamplight flickering in the distance. She listened to the steady beat of rain for a few minutes until there was another flash and multiple cracks of thunder. Three eruptions that time. The distant lamplight was extinguished with the last blast of thunder. Who or what was out there? Patience shook her head, her imagination running wild as she let the drapery slip from her hand and walked to the bed.
The candlelight flickered in the room, casting hooked fingers along the walls. When she was young her father used to tweak her nose and check under her bed to make sure nothing was hiding beneath. She smiled at the memory.
Capping the candle, she slipped under the covers, reflecting on her first few hours in the castle. It was only her first night there and already she had experienced an adventure. Whatever the rogue-turned-viscount had been doing by entering through a window, it had definitely made an already exciting trip more interesting.
She wondered if she would discover why he had suddenly turned so cold. He had been anything but cold initially. Patience ran a finger across her lip, tracing the path that the viscount’s thumb had traveled.
Tilly woke her early, and Patience spent a peaceful moment at the window, gazing out onto the grounds. She had a beautiful view of the formal gardens, the rose garden, the lake, a number of plain outbuildings, and the small forest north of the property.
The sun was rising in the sky, and even from a distance everything appeared clean and bright after the night’s downpour. Patience hoped a tour of the gardens was on the morning agenda. She loved the fresh, clean smell of the plants after a rain.
She dressed and left her room for the dining hall without pulling the bell. She was feeling adventurous, and she somehow doubted Caroline would be surprised that she had struck out on her own.
The castle appeared completely different in the morning light, and she was reminded of the dual personality of the entrance hall the night before. The shadows were soft and passive, and the gilt sparkled in the sun’s early rays. The eerie, nearly oppressive, feel was missing, as if scrubbed from existence while she slept.
She shortened her strides to examine a mural depicting the story of Psyche and Cupid, and stopped to admire a Canaletto. An inlay hall table struck her fancy, and she poked underneath it, opening the drawers, feeling the undersides of the wood, and marveling at the craftsman who had shaped it. Only after she bumped into a second maid when crouching beneath a small, but beautiful drum table, did she notice the odd glances the passing servants were giving her.
Mustering some fortitude, she longingly bypassed a beautiful Greek amphora, ten Italian Renaissance paintings, five Dutch masters, an oddly shaped coat of arms that she swore had a naked man in the corner, fifteen different medieval swords, five wall tapestries, and three Chinese vases. That didn’t include the countless treasures she tried to ignore completely and not identify, nor the frescoed walls, the frescoed ceilings, the priceless rugs on the floors…good Lord.
She wondered if she would be able to concentrate on the Ashe collection and not poke around the castle’s antiquities instead. What could the viscount’s uncle have possibly collected that could make it additional to the treasures already inside?
Two staircases, two wrong turns, and a collision with a servant (due to Patience’s tightly shut eyes to prevent her backtracking to a hall stand holding an ornate canopic jar—a rare one with the head of Anubis), and she finally entered the dining room.
Strangely enough only the viscount was present. Generally early risers, her team had either already left or run into the same dilemma as she. As she thought it over, she realized that Mr. Tecking would probably need to be dragged down. John, however, usually exerted more self-control, so his absence was especially puzzling.
Blackfield, looking much more proper but no less appealing, with his silkily brushed dark hair and finely tailored clothes, examined her. His dark blue eyes took in every inch of her appearance. He muttered a greeting and returned to his paper.
Nonplussed, Patience walked to the walnut sideboard and selected eggs and sausage. She contemplated sitting at the far side of the grand table, but mustering her courage, took a chair near the viscount.
He sighed audibly and let the edges of the paper slip through his fingers, folding his hands on top of the pages as soon as they fluttered closed.
“Did you have a pleasant night, Miss Harrington?”
Patience blinked at his perfunctory manner, as if he only needed to iterate three more clichéd sentences and his duty would be complete.
She paused before answering. “It was interesting.”
“Is that so?”
His answer was barely above the level of chronic boredom.
She pushed her eggs a bit. “Quite a storm we had.”
“Yes.” He peered at his nails.
“All sorts of interesting noises and lights from in and around the castle. One could take to the notion that the castle is haunted.”
He made no overt moves, but there was a slight tensing in his well-tanned hands. She noticed that, while his hands were graceful and strong, they weren’t smooth and perfectly manicured gentlemen’s hands. No London gentleman in his right mind would be tanned or sporting calluses of any kind. And yet she could see one, just beneath the curled pinky finger on his right hand.
“Perhaps I should ask Caroline to have a maid and footman accompany you to your room at night? The castle tends to frighten those with overactive imaginations.”
She thought about the near flight to her room the previous night with the maid. She had a feeling he had been informed of it. “Yes, well, nothing wrong with having imagination.”
He raised a brow. “Overactive, Miss Harrington, overactive.”
She really couldn’t argue it at the moment. “Yes, well, I couldn’t help but be captivated by all of the beautiful pieces contained in the castle. As well as the life of the castle itself.”
Patience couldn’t tell what the problem was, but Blackfield’s expression warred between pleasure and pain. “I suppose it would take an antiquarian to recognize that about the castle. Too bad most in your field can’t see past what is immediately in front of them.”
“I, uh, assume that you don’t care for antiquarians?”
He tapped his finger against the table. “Don’t you ever get bored with it?”
Patience looked at him in surprise. “Bored with what, my lord?”
Blackfield shrugged nonchalantly. “Examining relics? Investigating the same objects, over and over again?”
She frowned. “History is fascinating. Don’t you ever wonder how your ancestors lived? How they survived and discovered new techniques to improve their life, created new concepts and devices, or lack thereof?”
“But do antiquarians actually care about time periods and the way people lived?” Blackfield leaned back in his chair, his finger tapping on the wooden arm instead. “Seems to me all of you are more interested in the gilt edging on a glass or a chip in a bowl. Don’t you find it repetitive? Or does it just make things easier?”
Patience narrowed her eyes. “What are you implying, Lord Blackfield?”
His gaze slid over her, washing her in a combination of coolness and heat. He waved a hand in a manner that was meant to be disarming. “It just seems to me that whenever I have met people interested in your field, they seem to be escaping from something. Burying themselves in the past or in a vase whose owners have been deceased for centuries.”
The barb hit, and Patience knew it showed on her face. “That may be true for some people, as is an obsession with any hobby, not just antiquities.”
“Feeling defensive, Miss Harrington?”
“Feeling offensive, Lord Blackfield?”
An unwilling smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. “Touché, Miss Harrington. I suppose I ought to be grateful my aunt has not yet graced the table. I’m sure she would be appalled at my bad manners.”
“Well, my lord, one is never too old to learn manners or diplomacy. I myself have only recently learned, that one does not comment on a woman’s shape, if she does not want to be clouted with a very large and ugly cane.”
Patience could have happily stuck her fork through her hand. What had possessed her to disclose that?
“And what was this shape you commented on, my dear Miss Harrington?” He sipped his black tea, seemingly interested for the first time in their conversation.
Well, it was too late now. “Whether or not Lady Shickles was breeding.”
Blackfield choked on his tea and wheezed. “I will endeavor to remember your wise advice.” The edges of his eyes crinkled just a tiny bit. “Did you really ask that of her? Lady Shickles? The one with the medusa-head cane and the poodles?”
“Yes.” She casually forked a piece of sausage; a heady sense of freedom coursing through her at blithely repeating her blunder. “That cane is a very poor reproduction of an Italian piece on loan to the museum. Inferior workmanship. I told her I could acquire a better one if she needed assistance through her pregnancy.”
She had no idea why she had told him the
story. Freeing or not, it was mortifying. Asocial disaster. And she didn’t know him at all. Wasn’t even sure she liked him five quips ago. Yet, there was something about him, and when she saw the warm spark in his previously cold eyes, she felt like she, too, wanted to laugh. She wanted to laugh even though the incident had caused her to be blackballed from a number of the early-season events.
And then, of course, the Antleberry incident had taken care of the rest. Her smile vanished.
His gaze turned speculative. “I would have liked to see her face. Those mutts of hers are a menace to proper dogs everywhere.”
“Been bitten, have you?” She examined his face shrewdly. “Well, take it as a compliment; they prefer only the choicest meat.”
Real humor and a hint of something a touch deeper entered his eyes, and just as she was congratulating herself, John and the Teckings entered the room. Blackfield’s facial expression returned to the stiff, formal one of earlier. Nodding politely, he greeted them courteously, lifted his papers, and stood to excuse himself.
He raised an eyebrow to Patience and paused contemplatively before scooping up a scone and disappearing through the archway to a room beyond. She felt a sense of loss at his departure. She had just started warming up to him, and she thought that perhaps the same had been true on his part.
As she had observed the night before, he had a dark and wild sort of beauty that made one want to tame him. No wonder she had heard women talking about him in reference to stallions. She had been confused at the time about why a man would be compared to a horse, but now it made sense.
Patience sipped her tea while John and the Teckings ate, and they discussed the wonderful art and tapestries they had spied in the halls. A light congenial conversation continued until the topic turned to the previous night.
“Quite a storm last night, even after we retired,” John said.
Patience frowned. “Did you hear the massive bursts of thunder? It was striking in sudden repetition. Thrice, even four times in a row.”