The Fall of The Kings (Riverside) (56 page)

The first obstacle to Galing’s admirable plan was Lady Campion’s butler, who told him Lord Theron was not receiving visitors at present.

“Is he out?” Nicholas asked pleasantly. “Perhaps I might wait, then.”

“Oh, he’s here, all right. He just ain’t receiving.”

“Perhaps you might ask him? I am Lord Nicholas Galing.”

The butler squinted at him. Since the great scar scrawled across his face from temple to chin traveled through his left eyelid, his squint was a fearsome sight indeed, but Nicholas did not quail. This steadfastness seemed to impress the butler, who said, “Well, I don’t know. Come along of me to her ladyship, and we’ll see what she has to say about it.”

Nicholas laid his cloak across a chair, tucked the leather case under his arm, and followed the butler through a series of corridors spanning a variety of architectural and decorative styles. He’d never set foot in Riverside House before, although he’d heard the stories. Seeing the place now, it was hard to believe in the legendary masked balls, the orgiastic gaming parties and wild frolics of the old duke’s times. These rooms looked respectable and comfortable, even cozy, with their rich, dark carpets and flowered tapestries, their deep sofas and tables crowded with beautiful things. Nicholas wondered whether the duchess had redecorated.

“You was noticing me face,” the butler remarked as he led the way up a steep staircase to a narrow landing with a door at each end.

Nicholas made an apologetic murmur.

“It’s worth noticing. Her ladyship does pretty work. Beau Dartwell nearly had the eye out my head, but she sewed it back, like a button on a shirt, good as new.
And
she took me on as butler when old Leverre went out to pasture. I’d do anything for her ladyship, and that’s a fact.” He gave Nicholas a warning glare, then tapped on one of the doors, opened it, and said, “Lord Somebody or Other, my lady, come to see Lord Theron. I’ll just keep myself handy in case you want him thrown out.”

Galing stepped over the threshold with his best social smile pinned to his lips in time to hear a woman’s voice saying, “Davy, I’m insulted. Don’t you think I’m up to protecting Lady Sophia from some city boy?”

The voice belonged to one of the two women in the pleasant, sun-lit room—the one who was lounging on the sofa, looking as out of place as a parrot in an herb garden. Her hair was hennaed a blazing red, her face was bony and sunbrowned, her clothes were purple and scarlet and turquoise, of no recognizable style or fashion. She was smiling at Galing with frank curiosity.

Conscious that he’d been staring himself, Galing nodded curtly and turned to Lady Sophia, who was sitting in the bay window at a large, cluttered desk. She said, “Wicked girl,” with affectionate composure, and introduced the colorful woman as Lady Jessica Campion. “And you, sir, are?”

Galing bowed low. “Lord Nicholas Galing, and your most obedient servant, Lady Sophia, Lady Jessica.”

The colorful woman gave a snort of laughter. “Very nice,” she said. “I can’t wait to hear what he says next.”

Behind his smile, Nicholas was consigning the whole of this unconventional household to the bottom of the Seventh Hell, thugs, half-women, and all.

Lady Sophia seemed aware of his discomfort. “Hush, Jessie dear; you’re embarrassing our visitor. Davy, you may go. I’ll ring if I need you.”

The scarred butler shrugged massive shoulders. “It’s your funeral, my lady,” he said ominously, and pulled the door to behind him with an ostentatious snap.

“Now, Lord Nicholas, come in and sit down and tell me what business brings you to see my son.”

Nicholas was not accustomed to such plain speaking, especially from a woman. He took a moment to find a chair, glanced briefly at Lady Jessica, and said, “It is a private matter, meant for his ears only.”

“Because,” said Lady Sophia as if he’d not spoken, “if it is a matter of business, or money he owes you, you must apply to me, or to Marcus Ffoliot. My son is not yet of age.”

“It is not business. I had the pleasure of meeting Lord Theron at the Randalls’ at the time of his betrothal. We found we had interests in common. In fact, he was to attend the theatre in my party. But I hear he has been ill.” Nicholas held out the leather case. “I brought him some offerings I thought might divert him.”

“Oh, really?” Lady Jessica reached out one arm from the couch. “Art? I am something of an expert. Let’s see.”

Nicholas clutched the case tightly. “With your permission—I doubt a lady would find them diverting.”

“Oh, dear,” Sophia sighed.

“Smut,” said Jessica. “Well, why not? Though I doubt you and he have quite as much in common as you’d think. What play, by the way?”

“
The Empress
. Do you know it?”

“I should. My mother created the role.”

“My land,” said Nicholas, inelegantly. “The Black Rose.”

And this was her daughter: bastard off-shoot of the old duke and his actress mistress. “Lady” Jessica by courtesy only. The men at Lord Filisand’s would be fascinated to learn she was in town.

“Just so,” said Jessica, amused. “I’m surprised you’ve heard of her.”

Nicholas smiled. “She was the greatest actress of her age, with a heart as great as her genius.”

“A nice recovery,” said Jessica. “But you did not come here to speak of my mother.”

Nicholas regretted that it was no longer considered acceptable to call challenge on a woman. The quirk of Jessica’s long mouth suggested that she knew just what he was thinking. He summoned his own smile back to his lips and aimed it at his hostess. “Have I your permission to see Lord Theron? For a moment only, of course: I do not wish to tire him.”

Lady Sophia did not answer immediately, but studied Nicholas. It was not unlike Lord Arlen’s attempts to fluster him, except for being oddly impersonal, as if Nicholas were a problem to be solved. He bore her scrutiny patiently, taking the opportunity to study Theron Campion’s mother in return. She was handsome in a dark, foreign way, her black dress plain but well-cut, her thick hair braided artlessly around her head. Her only jewel was the massive ruby covering the first joint of her left forefinger like a glowing coal. Her black eyes were calm and direct.

“Very well,” she said at last. “He might enjoy the company. But he is overtired. You understand?”

Nicholas nodded. “I will not keep him long. Your care for him does you credit.”

“Poh,” she said, and grinned suddenly. It made her look very like her son. “I am his mother, and a physician, and I am told I fuss too much. But not so much as Sly Davy, who thinks we must be protected from the world.” She raised her voice. “Davy! You may come in now.” The door opened with suspicious promptness. “Davy, please take this gentleman to a parlor and bring Lord Theron to him. And please don’t listen at the door. I do not mind, but Lord Theron deserves his privacy.”

Lady Jessica unfolded herself from the sofa and shook her costume straight. She was wearing a gauzy vest over a long shirt and loose trousers—Nicholas had never seen the like before, on man or woman.

“Nice, isn’t it?” she said cheerfully. “My own design. I’ll take temptation out of Davy’s way, and fetch Theron for you myself.” She grinned at the butler. “Put his lordship in the False Cabinet, will you, Davy? And then go give Helen a cuddle. I saw the butcher wink at her this morning.” When Davy growled, she laughed and strode out the door.

Nicholas rose and bent punctiliously over his hostess’ hand. It was strong and square and rough—a farm-wife’s hand, except for the ruby. He realized that he liked her.
This
house is full of surprises,
Nicholas thought, and turned to follow Sly Davy.

It was an easy house to get lost in. On any other occasion, Nicholas would have been fascinated by its intricacies, but this morning, he was just impatient to get on with what promised to be an interesting interview. At last Davy showed him into a small room and kindly recommended him to make himself at home, since there was no telling where his lordship might have got himself to.

Lord Nicholas nodded and went to help himself to an apple from a large bowl of fruit. When it turned out to be wax, he tried to take a book from the shelves next to the hearth. The books were false spines, hiding a cabinet, he presumed, with a concealed latch. Intrigued, he poked and prodded, but soon lost patience. A bunch of violets was made of enamel, as was the porcelain teacup holding it. The malachite box on the mantelpiece was painted wood and the leopard’s pelt thrown over the back of a chair was unshorn figured velvet. He had just pulled back curtains printed to look like watered silk to reveal a window-sized painting of a garden in high summer when the door opened and Lord Theron Campion entered the room.

He looked nervous. As well he might, Nicholas thought as he bowed and mouthed the standard opening platitudes. Campion did not take his part in the verbal pavane, simply nodding jerkily in acknowledgment. Neither did he come fully into the room, but clung to the door-handle, poised to bolt.

“Such an unusual room,” Galing said after an awkward pause. “Nothing in it is what it seems to be.”

Campion’s face relaxed. “No. It isn’t, is it? I can come in, then.” He released the handle. “My sister tells me I have been rude.” He smiled charmingly. “Again. I forgot your theatre party. Forgive me.”

Galing gestured toward the open door. “Perhaps we could shut the door and discuss it?”

Alarm widened Campion’s long eyes. “I don’t think—”

A hennaed head appeared over the young nobleman’s shoulder. “I’ll send Davy with some wine or fruit if you’d like,” Lady Jessica said cheerfully. “Everything here’s wax and marble.”

Her voice startled Campion, who leapt away from her and stood clutching a chair-back, wild-eyed. Galing, who would have given much for a glass of wine, remembered Sly Davy’s habit of listening at doors and said, “No. Thank you.”

“Right,” said Jessica. “Have fun, boys.” And she departed, pulling the door shut behind her. When he heard the latch fall, Campion started nervously and put his hand out to open it again.

“Leave it closed,” said Galing sharply.

Campion spun around, his eyes wide, his mouth ajar, clearly panic-stricken. Overtired, indeed, Galing thought. Half mad was closer to the mark. With guilt, perhaps?

“I have brought you something.” Galing used a slow, calm voice, a voice suitable for soothing horses. “A gift. But you may not like it. It is of a very personal nature.”

“I am betrothed,” Theron said breathlessly. “I am not in a position to accept that sort of gift.”

“You mistake me, Lord Theron. It is—how shall I say? An offering. To your youth, your beauty—and your indiscretion.”

“My—”

The young man’s head was up, his nostrils sniffing the air, the very picture of the man with the deer’s head in Ysaud’s pictures. The image was so strong that Galing said aloud, despite himself, “Ah, now I see! You did give them to her after all.”

“What?” Campion asked frantically. “What did I give, to whom? The necklace will be paid for. I’ve done nothing—”

It was the opening Nicholas had been angling for, though a little early in the game. Still, he seized the moment and moved in. “Ah, but you have, sir. You have done much this winter, with who knows what more to come.”

Theron was backed up to the wall. He tried for a haughty look, succeeded only in looking wild-eyed. “You mistake me, sir, or else yourself.”

“Do I? Hear me out, my lord, and tell me how much I mistake.” It was potent, the young man’s fear; he could smell it on the air, and he knew that he had stumbled upon something critical, something hidden, a secret Campion held that no one else must know. His terror at discovery was manifest; perhaps, like most criminals, he would be relieved to be rid of it.

“I know much already,” Nicholas said reasonably. “Since MidWinter, there has been a series of incidents in the city: a hunt, a scandal, a challenge. And I think you are at the heart of them all.”

At the word “hunt,” Campion threw back his head and went very still.

“I know of the Companions of the King. I know of your lover at University. I know of his incautious lectures, and the odd enthusiasms of those who fall under his spell. Is that your excuse, my lord? That you were led astray by insidious teachings?”

The boy’s eyes narrowed. “Get out. Leave this house.”

“Oh, I don’t think so; not yet. Not until I’ve given you my little gift.”

Galing untied the laces of the flat leather case and brought out two of Ysaud’s drawings. One showed Campion lying on his back with one arm curled up over his head and the other crossing the vine etched into his chest, echoing the relaxed curve of his legs and his sex. In the other, he was seated, rampant and hungry, reaching out toward the be-holder as if in supplication.

Campion stared transfixed at these living images of his obsession with Ysaud, the blood flooding his gaunt cheeks. “I don’t remember this. I did not pose for these.”

“But effectively you did, my lord—for months, as I understand. The lady has a very quick eye.”

“These are private. Studies for the paintings.”

“Yes, the deer series. Magnificent work. I admired them deeply. I hear she’s getting ready to show them, soon,” he added for effect.

“She promised no one would know who they were.”