“I’ve no idea,” Phoebe said with a shrug. “And before you ask, neither has Diana. Whatever his feelings, he did not wear them upon his face.”
Perhaps because he was far too accustomed to his face being used as a weapon against him. “I see,” she said. And then: “Could I ask a favor of you both?”
“Of course,” Phoebe said automatically.
“For a price,” Chris said, and dodged the swipe of his wife’s pointy elbow in a smooth, practiced motion that suggested he’d become well acquainted with the consequences of speaking out of turn.
“He’s joking,” Phoebe assured her, in a voice that promised retribution if he wasn’t.
“Should you encounter him—Captain Sharp, I mean to say—would you just…be kind to him?” The poor man was long due a bit of kindness. One good turn, when so much else had gone so terribly wrong for him.
“Kind?” Chris echoed, aghast.
“He’s not like us,” Charity said to him. “You and me, I mean to say. He isn’t anywhere near so hard or cold as he would like to appear.”Or ruthless, or cunning, or brutal when a situation required it. Rather, he was too tenderhearted for his own good, when a harder one might have served him better. More vulnerable already than he even knew. Wary of a hand offered in friendship which might plunge a dagger into his back the moment he turned it. Wounded and battered, expecting only betrayal and scorn. “He could benefit from a few friendly faces in a crowd.”
“Hell,” Chris grunted. “I s’pose I might as well make room for one more. I put up wiv Phoebe’s brother and brothers-in-law often enough as it is. And a duke in my pocket would be quite a feather in my cap,” he added with a sly smile. “We’ll be out o’ yer way,” he said, curling one hand around Phoebe’s arm to tug her from the room. “Since it’s clear as day you got plans o’ yer own for the evening.”
She had, of course, and no doubt they could both hazard a guess as to what they were—or near enough to it. The broad strokes, at least.
“The red,” Chris repeated, with a nod toward the garment in question as he crossed the threshold. “Shows off your bosom better.”
Charity sighed. With Captain Sharp’s renewed mastery of dancing, she supposed it was time to move on to more advanced lessons. And the red gown, with its risqué neckline, would be well-suited to it.
A man had to learn the intricacies of unlacing a gown eventually.
∞∞∞
“Captain Sharp is out at the moment,” Redding said, as Charity shrugged out of her pelisse and handed it over to him. “He is expected back within the hour, but requests that you make yourself comfortable in his absence. Shall I bring tea?”
Outwas good, she hoped.Outmeant that Captain Sharp had not buried himself within this great house that had the distinct air of a mausoleum more than anything else. That he had not been banished to his study within his own home to dine alone rather than risk upsetting the children in residence. “No, thank you, Redding,” she said. “But if you might direct me toward the library, I would be most appreciative. I’m afraid nothing within Captain Sharp’s study constitutes light reading.”
“It wouldn’t,” he said. “The late duke considered himself something of an academic. He enjoyed the occasional novel, but he would not have placedthem upon his own shelves.”
“Not a jovial sort of man, then?”
“On the contrary. An affable man to last, he was. But he wasn’t the sort of man to spend much of his time with his nose in a book when he might spend it with his family instead.” Redding pitched his voice to a low murmur, almost conspiratorial, as if he suspected the walls might possess ears. “The duchess was the more prolific reader between them. There was a time that she was quite a voracious reader of novels and poetry.” He gave a small gesture toward the rear of the house, past the drawing room where he might otherwise have placed her to wait upon Captain Sharp’s return. “You’ll find the library down the first corridor on the left, second room to the right. It’ll be the work of only a few moments to ensure the lamps are lit for you.” With a small bow, Redding departed once more.
A kind man, she thought, as she watched him go. He’d ushered her into this grand house a half a dozen times now, and never once had he insinuated through word or deed that she was anything less than welcome.
Her footsteps echoed as she headed at last in the direction Redding had indicated to her; the only sound within a household that felt devoid of life. Tall ceilings, gilded molding, floors polished to a high shine—but nothing moved. Nothing breathed. Unhappiness seemed steeped into the very walls, the care taken by the servants to keep the grand house in a presentable state only a thin veneer upon this now-empty shell of what surely once must have been a happy home.
Three young boys had once occupied it, after all. She could imagine how the high ceilings must have once collected the sounds of their laughter, the shouts issued in the exuberance of youth, the rapid patter of stomping little feet as they had careened about corridors and hallways.
And now—silence. Not even the faint wheezes of the happy home that had been fading into the stillness of death. It was dead and gone already; its occupants only ghosts going through the remembered motions of life.
The heavy door of the library swung open easily at the pressure of her hand, the hinges well-oiled, but it was still instantly clear that this room received little use. The curtains were drawn, no doubt to protect the valuable books from the indifferent touch of the sun. The lamps were lit, but the room smelled sterile and dry—as if the only thing that had been moved within it recently had been dust from an infrequent and obligatory cleaning. No cracking of old covers which might have imparted to the room the comforting scent of pages and ink and the slight astringent tang of bindingglue. No hints of comfortable gatherings come and gone in the faint sweetness of sugar or the lingering earthy aroma of tea.
Every bit as dead as the rest of the house. A funeral spelled out in black cloth covers, in the stultifying silence that seemed too thick and deep for even the riffle of pages to disturb it.
The thick rugs spread over the floors blunted the sounds of her footsteps as Charity browsed the shelves, arranged in orderly perfection. There was no danger of finding a volume carelessly misplaced upon them; like was inevitably with like, alphabetically organized by author, which made it at least a simple process to locate the shelf designated for poetry and to select a few suitable volumes.
The section reserved for novels was extensive, attesting to the duchess’ fondness for it. Orformerfondness, it seemed—nothing new; nothing recent. Whatever had killed the duchess’ love of fiction, of stories of love and triumph and joy, had happened years and years ago.
Right around the time, Charity guessed, from the dates of publication printed within the volumes she had selected, that the duchess’ youngest son had bought himself a military commission.
As she hefted a weighty stack of books in her arms and crossed the room to deposit them upon a small table, the queer feeling of being observedprickled the fine hair at the nape of her neck and sent chill bumps racing up her arms. She was no stranger to stares, to the omnipresent eyes upon her when she went about in public, to the judgment of those who considered themselves her betters. But here, in this house, there were limited eyes which might be predisposed to spy upon her.
Her gaze sharpened, sliding across the room to the door, opened now just a crack. But the sliver of a face revealed within that crack appeared at a much shorter height than she had expected. A child—one of Captain Sharp’s nieces, she assumed. Too tall, she thought, to be only four.
