The Duke of Snow and Apples (29 page)

“Sylvia!”

“What? I’m engaged, not
blind
. He’s a very pretty young man. Lovely calves—of course, another footmanish thing. Once he’s fully ensconced in his duke-ness he’ll probably let those beautiful legs go to seed.”

“That is none of…”

“Or is it that he no longer has to obey your every beck and call?” Sylvia touched a forefinger to the side of her mouth in an exaggerated thoughtful pose. “Yes, I suppose that would be a bother, but only for a little while. He may be a duke, but soon he’ll be your
husband
, which is the next best thing to a personal servant anyhow.”

“You’re impossible,” said Charlotte, the most articulate thing she could manage before she succumbed to helpless giggles.

They laughed together, oblivious to the eternally reproving eyes of the portraits above them. After the last peal died off, a bit of the emptiness still remained, a gap between Frederick and herself. Sylvia’s little ploy made it out to be such a small thing, a crack in the paving, a hop-skip-jump to the other side.

Charlotte couldn’t help but consider it a bit more serious than that. She could take that leap only once. If she slipped, if she hesitated, if she misjudged, who was to say that gap wouldn’t turn out to be a canyon, wide and dark and waiting to swallow her whole?

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The Seven Dowagers, most of their staff agreed, were kindhearted and lenient employers. The maids and footmen and grooms made up the cogs and wheels of Charmant Parks’ machinery of comfort and hospitality, and a fine machine it was, too, enough that the Dowagers generously tolerated the occasional stutter, clank, or puff of odd-smelling smoke.

Today, however, the blind eyes turned to the various spills and stumbles might have had less-than-innocent motives, or so thought Frederick, since most of the harmless accidents throughout the day all happened on or around his person. An overset cup of hot tea into his lap. A salon door shut on his fingers. A heel ground into his foot in passing.

Oh, they apologized for each little incident, every one of them, great blubbering torrents of apologies, as if Frederick hadn’t spent several years learning the sour taste of false contrition appeasing a spoiled Pure Blooded. They stood to attention at his presence, their eyes seeing right through him—no, worse. Their gazes came to a dead, emotionless halt at the elaborately knotted cravat, the expensive (albeit borrowed) clothes, and the great ugly ring on his finger and refused to see anything else.

And Charlotte—apart from a few humiliating moments at breakfast, he hadn’t seen her since. His former comrades in arms refused to divulge her whereabouts, mouthing facile regrets while stripes of hostile green flickered across Frederick’s vision. Not that he could blame her. Still, he wished he could have one moment with her to himself, one moment to tell her he hadn’t wanted it to turn out this way.

In an agony of desperation, he allowed Sir Bertram to corner him, and was subsequently sequestered in a study with his cousin, Mr. Littiger. There, they proceeded to enlighten him as to his new (or old) responsibilities by amassing as many cold, numerical facts about the Snowmont estate as they could and bludgeoning him to death with them. The population of tenants, the condition of their housing. How much the Snowmont strawberry harvest yielded every year. The new drainage system and its efficiency (or lack thereof). How many prides of salamanders Snowmont Abbey burned in a month, and how much their Salaman was paid to shepherd them.

Mr. Littiger, to his credit, did little more than recite statistics he’d obviously memorized, while Sir Bertram expounded upon their importance to the upkeep of all in the dukedom. If
this
crop failed, then
that
horrifying event would result. If
these
records were not scrupulously maintained, then
this
much money drained out of the Cleighmore coffers.

Frederick listened to his stepfather as closely as he could manage, until the errant question—
why?
—knocked his attention awry.

Why
was Sir Bertram here discussing the Snowmont lands, and
why
was his expertise so much superior to Littiger’s? They weren’t related, so how, exactly, had Sir Bertram become Littiger’s “particular friend”?

Frederick would have thought Sir Bertram would have left Snowmont Abbey after his mother’s death, his grief assuaged by a handsome death settlement. Perhaps he’d loved Frederick’s mother more than he’d guessed. Charlotte had admitted her own reluctance to adjust to her stepparent. Perhaps Frederick was the same.

Hours later, Frederick staggered out to dress for dinner, uncertain what disquieted him the most: the imminent pressure of having the livelihoods of so many once more laid in his unsure hands, or being forced to share close quarters with the Gray-struck Mr. Littiger. Frederick doubted the
precise
methods used to pull Charlotte up from the Gray could be reenacted for his cousin.

“I don’t think I can do it,” Frederick said that evening in his dressing-room, to the only person in Charmant Park willing to listen.

Edward paused in the middle of brushing the last speck of lint from Frederick’s black jacket, his mouth opening in consternation, evidently expecting his master to bolt any minute.

“Dinner, I meant,” Frederick said.
Although the other option is tempting.

“Nonsense, Your Grace. You’re doing fine. It’s coming back to you, I can tell. You weren’t raised by savages.”

“Wasn’t I?” Frederick spread his arms as Edward eased him into a coat that, thanks to his valet’s nimble needle, fit him like a second skin. “Even as a duke, I kept to the country nearly all my life. I visited the Flowering City maybe twice, and after that, I only traveled to Trinidon as a servant.”

“Perhaps,” said Edward. “Staying in the country was your mother’s choice, not yours. Perhaps not the wisest decision, but your father’s death hurt her very deeply and she had no other family.”

He slipped a cravat around Frederick’s neck, his face screwing up in concentration, one eyebrow quirking higher than the other, a gesture so like his father’s that Frederick felt absurdly young again, seven or eight, as good ol’ Grubs ensured his young master looked splendid for Her Grace the Duchess. The shocking
closeness
of that memory (he could almost catch the pungent scent of Old Grubs’s soap, hear the distant tinkle of his mother’s laughter) brought tears to his eyes, and he blinked rapidly to clear them.

“There.” Edward backed up a few steps to bask in glory of his artistry. “You’re ready.”

Despite Edward’s assurances, Frederick felt very much like a savage when he entered the drawing-room and every head in the room turned to stare, to dissect the curiosity of a resurrected duke. Tension strained across the room, evident in tightened jaw lines, rigid postures, and visible sinews in the necks of those trying to stare without being seen. Unflattering colors, a private chorus of shadows fluttered about the room.

Frederick restrained the impulse to repress his magic. He didn’t want to pretend he was welcome amongst the Pure Blooded. He deserved much of their distrust and distaste. Instead, he turned and strode toward the three chairs settled before the fire, as if he had a purpose, a direction that would keep the accelerated shifting of his world from flying apart.

He bowed and exchanged pleasantries with two of the three women seated apart from the other guests. Mrs. Colton responded with reserve, but without coldness. Dorothea laid a trembling, blue-veined hand in his, and offered the same tentative smile she’d bestowed upon him for years.

“You’ve found your ring,” the seventh Dowager whispered. “I’m so glad.” As if that was the only thing different between today and the day before, and everything else was of no account. Frederick looked at her with magic in his eyes for the first time—the only Dowager without a title, without a family, seemingly without a past. At first, he didn’t see anything at all, not even Gray. When she turned her face back to the fire he caught it—a shining tracery, thin as spider’s silk, a delicate, near-invisible net of pale threads, gold and silver and cobalt, stretched taut. Her emotional restraint put Frederick to shame, and he pulled his power back. He had no right to see what she preferred to keep controlled and hidden.

At last, he turned to Charlotte. She offered her hand. Frederick took it, too quickly, and pressed a kiss upon it, with more desperation than he’d intended. He kept his power held back. If Charlotte felt anything approaching forgiveness or desire for him, he would let her show him, when she pleased.

“I hope I find you well, this evening.” He cursed himself as soon as he said the words, meaningless niceties for when one had nothing better to say. What
could
he say? Charlotte sat by the fire, with the pregnant and the frail, the wallflower’s seat, reserved for the Pure Blooded girl who had dallied with the help. He’d subjected her to enough humiliation.

Sure enough, she tugged her hand away, but she met his eyes as she did so. “You’ll let me know
when
you find me, won’t you?”

Frederick almost laughed aloud with relief. “Are you underneath the armoire? Ten to one everything I lose turns up there.”

Charlotte smiled—a small curve of lip, a subtle lift of cheekbone, but more than he had expected, hoped for, or deserved.

The first dinner bell sounded, and instinctive panic shot through Frederick like an electric shock.
Why aren’t I in the kitchen?…I can’t remember the place settings…peacocks or water-lilies?… Mr. Gelvers will sack me
. A whole train of thought, predicting doom and disgrace and loss of position, galloped through his mind and out again, leaving a wreckage of embarrassment.

Charlotte rose from her chair and placed a hand on his arm, bringing his mind back within his own skin. “We’re first in order of precedence.”

Of course. Frederick passed the lords, the viscounts, the earl, the Dowagers, to take his place at the head of the line to proceed to dinner. He nudged Charlotte with his elbow and cocked his head back at her sister, partnered with Elban, who as a mere Viscount deferred to Frederick’s higher status. “Rather a long way down the line, eh?”

Charlotte lips thinned. “We’ve reconciled, you realize.”

“Oh.”

Charlotte bit her lower lip to repress a smile. “And now you’ve filled me with disloyal satisfaction.”

“Unless your sister’s brought her opera glasses, it’s uncertain she’ll notice. They’re so far away.”

“
Her sister
is only two places behind you,” Sylvia hissed.

“
My sister
would never comment on our conversation because she realizes eavesdropping is incredibly unladylike,” said Charlotte.

“
Her sister
is going to wear black to your wedding!”

“
My sister
wears black because she knows it is slimming.”

“Brat!”

“Pixie twit!”

Ah yes, fully reconciled
, thought Frederick.

They proceeded into the dining room. Frederick identified his place setting immediately, by the conspicuous gray thumbprints left on his wineglass and greasy marks on his napkin, probably courtesy of Ben or Gregory.

Mr. Gelvers approached to serve the wine. Frederick braced himself for the butler’s familiar disdain, only multiplied a hundredfold since learning of his subordinate’s fraud. The servant strode down the table with a queer bounce to his step, and while his mouth remained set and straight, his eyes crinkled. Was Mr. Gelvers
happy?

“May I interest you in a 1665 Barjovian blue?” he asked. This time his lips actually twitched—
twitched!
—upward, like a child desperate to show off a new and much-rehearsed trick. Frederick had never known Mr. Gelvers to sample the stores of his own cellar, but could come up with no other explanation for the butler’s unexpectedly cheery disposition.

“C-certainly.”

Mr. Gelvers tilted the bottle, then paused, his eyes narrowing in focus upon the maligned wine glass. The hesitation lasted only a moment before, with a deft sleight of hand, he spirited the offending vessel from the table and replaced it with a pristine glass, which he then filled with rich blue spirits. All while glowing with uncharacteristic good cheer.

Dinner conversation started slowly, obvious questions and answers separated by stretches of silence and chiming cutlery. Charlotte sat just across from Frederick, but each time he wanted to start a conversation, he found he had nothing to say, nothing that remotely counted as appropriate for a dinner party.

He had not seen the latest performance of
Gilsbourne the Great
performed by Henrietta Dimpley. While he supposed he now possessed a stable, he had no idea whether it contained any thoroughbreds about which to boast. He knew no gossip that did not involve the very private habits of the guests assembled here today, and even less of contemporary politics—what tidbits he did learn were filtered down through Mr. Gelvers’s complaints about the “terrible state” Allmarch always seemed to be in. And Mr. Gelvers acquired everything
he
learned about politics from the newspapers he ironed every morning for the Dowagers and their guests.

A fine husband he would make, Frederick thought. Stumbling and ignorant, who would possibly be charged with treason for dodging the Entailment. One who would have to manage and control estates when he could barely understand, much less manage, his own powers. He sucked in a gulp of air that felt as hot and thick as soup. His cravat suddenly seemed too tight, strangling.

Finally, just when the conversation couldn’t become any more inane, Sir Bertram spoke up. “I’ve sent sylphs with air posts to both Neigent Hill and His Grace’s solicitors in Trinidon.”

Lady Balrumple sniffed, as if the food before her had suddenly spoilt.

“Rest assured, Lady Balrumple. His Grace will honor his obligations. Both of them. At Neigent Hill, he can be reacquainted with his responsibilities to his lands, prepare himself for the Entailment, doing so all the while residing only a few miles from Charmant Park.”

“Should you ever need an extra pair of hands on the carriage,” Noxley said, snickering. He jerked back in his chair and swore as Mr. Gelvers accidentally sent a stream of ten-year-old, full-bodied wine into his lap.

“So sorry, sir,” the butler said, lifting the wine bottle. “My hand slipped.”

“And when will you be departing, if I may be so bold?” Lady Balrumple inquired.

“Tomorrow morning, weather permitting.”

Frederick froze, a forkful of braised goose halfway to his mouth.
When had they decided this?
Perhaps during his stepfather’s lecture earlier that day, it had slipped in during the numbing barrage of estate details. He should have paid closer attention.

“Only a few miles?” said Lady Balrumple.

“Half a day’s ride. At the most.”

To the viscountess’s right, Charlotte’s shoulders drooped.

“Charlotte, I…” Frederick ransacked his mind for something to say. Something ducal. “I will write.”

His words landed about as gracefully as a brick tied in rags. She flinched. Lady Balrumple’s knife scraped the side of her plate. Sylvia glared. Every gaze swung round to rest on him. Wrong. Somehow he’d chosen wrong. Why couldn’t it all go back to being simple?