“I hardly ever get to meet a gentleman,” Eugenia said, her eyes shining. “There was that Oxford professor, the one who was an expert in water rats. Is Mr. Cope a scientist?”
“Not that I know of,” Jem said. A footman offered a huge slab of red meat, so rare it practically quivered. He gestured toward the empty spot. “Our guest is starving. Give him a large piece.” He himself took just a sliver. He didn’t need red blood, the way Cope did, and he preferred eggs.
“So what does he do?” Eugenia asked.
“Nothing,” Jem said. “Most men don’t do anything.”
Her brows knit. “I’m glad I’m not a man, then.”
“Most women do less than nothing.”
“It’s impossible to do less than nothing,” she observed, accurate as always.
“I mean that they create busywork for themselves.”
“You are very cynical, Papa. From what I have observed, many women work hard, all day long. For example, my chambermaid’s name is Hannah. She works from the very moment of dawn until after dark. Did you know that there are nine separate stages to washing lace, Papa? Imagine how long that takes. A great many of my dresses are edged in lace. And your shirts too.”
“I didn’t mean the chambermaids.”
“They are women, Papa. And they work very very hard, I assure you. I think the laundry maids work the hardest. They have to heat all the water in a copper holding. And I do like clean clothes, Papa. Sometimes I feel guilty about that.”
It was moments like this when Jem really wished that Sally hadn’t died. “I suppose I didn’t mean women. I meant ladies. Ladies often don’t work terribly hard.”
“I haven’t met very many,” Eugenia said thoughtfully. She accepted a toast finger with marmalade. And then: “Papa, have I ever met a lady?”
“Yes,” he said. “Your governess is a lady. And Mrs. Patton is a lady. She visited last year, do you remember?”
The door opened and Cope entered. “My daughter, Eugenia,” Jem said brusquely. “Eugenia, this is Mr. Cope.”
Jem rather liked the way that Cope eyed the quivering beef on his plate.
“I’ve already eaten twice that amount,” he told him unrepentantly. “It’ll do you good. With eggs to follow.” He gestured to a footman, who promptly placed two yellow eggs on Cope’s plate.
The man wasn’t a lily-liver. He clearly didn’t like what was before him, but he took up a knife and fork and attacked it anyway.
Eugenia behaved very properly and waited to be spoken to.
“I’m afraid I know little about the interests of small girls,” Cope said to her. “What kind of things do you do with your day?”
That, of course, was all the invitation Eugenia needed. She reeled into a discussion of mathematical angles, her curiosity cabinet, her collection of tradesmens’ cards. “But what I like best of all is reading plays,” she finished. “Papa owns the Hyde Park Theater, and he causes the company to perform their dress rehearsal here, so I see everything before it goes to London.”
“I see you are a theatrical family,” Cope said politely enough.
The comment poked at Jem’s conscience. He probably shouldn’t have actors around Eugenia, not to mention the fact that he should be screening her reading material. When he inherited the theater from his father, inviting the actors to rehearse at Fonthill had been a careless decision when his attention was focused elsewhere, probably on the Game. It had turned into a tradition before he knew it.
“Beer for both of us,” he told the footman, who promptly poured a great foaming tankard for Cope.
Jem took a deep swallow. He wasn’t a proponent of beer, in truth. After a good decade of hard drinking and hard living, he’d stopped drinking almost entirely when he realized that Eugenia was a person rather than a squalling nuisance off in the nursery.
Cope sipped his tankard. That was another thing he’d have to teach him, Jem thought, adding it to an ever-growing mental list. No sipping. Men don’t sip.
“Papa won’t let me quote plays anymore,” Eugenia was telling Cope.
Cope raised an eyebrow. “Is it the act of quotation that’s banned, or the plays?”
“Her governess was concerned that she was forgetting normal speech. Everything she said was in blank verse and written by another person.”
“That’s not correct, Papa,” Eugenia said with great dignity. “It’s merely that I love to memorize, and there are so many moments when a quotation comes to mind.”
“It wasn’t only the fact that she spoke almost entirely in blank verse,” Jem told Cope. “It was the selections she chose.”
“I like old plays the best,” Eugenia said.
“Old bawdy plays,” Jem said.
“They’re funny!”
“I forbade her reading for a month after she asked me what it meant to have sweet violet beds, pressed to death with maidenheads.”
“Oh,” Cope said.
Jem saw with some satisfaction his utter inability to answer that particular question reflected in Cope’s face. He pushed away from the table. “We’re going to have a fencing lesson now, poppet. You’d better go back to the nursery.”
“Please let me come,” Eugenia said. “I’m so lonely by myself.” She looked truly distraught, except that Jem had known her long enough to instantly recognize every dramatic scene she had in her repertoire.
“Ah—” Cope said.
“I’m all alone in the nursery,” Eugenia said, clasping her hands and getting into her stride. She tried fluttering her lashes at Cope, but he just looked bemused.
Jem snorted, but on the other hand, he didn’t want to be alone with Cope. God forbid he should find himself in another discussion of hair color. Not that it was Cope’s fault exactly, but he just seemed to bring out a side of Jem that—that—
Didn’t exist.
“All right,” he barked. “You can watch us if you stay out of the way.”
He led the way to the portrait galley in the east wing, listening with half an ear to the lively discussion behind him. Just as Villiers had described, it appeared that Cope had hardly even visited London, and so hadn’t seen any current plays. But like Eugenia, he’d read quite a few. Eugenia was breaking the rules and quoting a line here or there, but Jem didn’t feel like scolding her in front of a stranger.
Though Cope was quickly turning into something other than a stranger.
A few years ago, Jem had had all the portraits in the gallery taken down and put in the attics somewhere. They weren’t of his relatives, anyway, just moldering old courtiers who came along with the house.
Instead the long corridor was lined with glass cases stuffed with curiosities. Some things still interested him, and others he’d ceased to care much about. But he liked the idea of collecting them all in one room—and the portrait gallery was the only space large enough for a stuffed ibis, not to mention the crown of an African prince, featuring orange-, blue-, and green-tipped plumage.
Eugenia pulled Cope over to the display cabinets. Jem leaned against a wall to watch. He hadn’t let a male guest put a finger on Eugenia since she turned five, but there was something about Cope that told him clear as a bell that the man was no danger to a little girl. He might be unable to perform with one of the Graces when it came down to it, though Jem hoped for his sake that wasn’t the case. He might even turn out to be a molly.
Jem had had plenty of men of that persuasion visit the house over the years, and he knew well enough that sin has nothing to do with the gender of a bed-partner.
Cope was nothing to worry about, not with those eyes. So he turned away as Eugenia pulled Cope from case to case, pointing out the supposed unicorn’s horn and the white swamp-hen from Australia.
Povy had the practice rapiers laid out. Jem pulled off his jacket and boots, tested the steel, and made some practice forays.
“Let’s do this, shall we?” he finally called.
It turned out that Cope had trouble pulling his own boots off. Jem didn’t curl his
lip too much, merely noting the obvious: a man should be able to valet himself.
Cope didn’t reply, just wrenched at his boots until one came off. Eugenia came to help, squealing with giggles as she tried to pull off the other boot, so finally Jem had to take over, to his disgust. He tossed the boot to the side of the room.
“Coat off,” he called. “Waistcoat too.”
Cope took off his coat, but then got very obstinate about his waistcoat and claimed it was cold in the gallery.
“Are you cold, Eugenia?” Jem asked.
“Not at all, Papa,” she said promptly.
He turned to Cope.
“Her lips are bluish,” the man pointed out. “Probably she would turn herself into a block of ice for the pleasure of your company, but I am not so taken with it myself.”
Jem looked closer at his daughter and cursed. He flung open the door and bellowed for a footman to bring Eugenia’s pelisse, mittens, and hat. Of course, it was a trifle chilly in the gallery, but they were planning on exercise.
“Run around,” he barked at Eugenia. “Keep warm or it’s back to the nursery with you.”
Then he turned to Cope. “The key to fighting with a rapier is to twist your wrist. As you parry a blow, a twist of your wrist will send the rapier sliding past the opponent’s blade and into his body.”
He eyed Cope. “Widen your legs. And hold your rapier in your right hand. You’re going to have to rely on wit rather than strength.” He took him through the first three basic moves. Then:
“Let’s have a match,” he said. “Povy didn’t provide rapier caps, so try not to injure me.” He laughed.
Cope looked startled, but Jem was already circling him. He could feel frustration surging through his veins—the frustration that had been building since the moment he caught himself looking at Cope.
It wasn’t the man’s fault, by God. But the blood was beating through Jem’s body and he wanted to fight.
Eugenia clapped and cheered, and Cope started circling too. Jem could see the sudden wariness in his eyes. Suddenly he no longer looked like a child holding a rapier, but like an alert man, smelling danger.
Good.
It was all part of becoming a man, Jem told himself. Not that he planned to draw blood or anything.
“Now I’m going to parry,” he announced. “See how my left arm has tensed? You need to watch every motion of your opponent’s body because it will tell you what he’s about to do before he does it.” Slowly Jem started a sweeping attack, a demi-volte.
Rather surprisingly, Cope didn’t fall back, but swung his rapier up and actually managed to deflect the blow before his rapier spun out of his hand and fell to the ground.
Jem barked with laughter. “Not bad!”
Cope straightened from picking up his rapier. His color was high and his eyes looked furious. “You struck hard!” he accused.
“No point in babying you,” Jem said, grinning. He started to circle again. “Some day you might grow up and meet someone on a dueling field at dawn. I’ll do exactly the same approach again. Try parrying it on the horizontal, rather than the vertical.”
Cope backed up, his lips tightly pressed together. Already he looked less effeminate, Jem thought with satisfaction.
“All right,” he called. “Watch my left shoulder. You can actually judge the type of blow once you get more experienced. The moment my left shoulder tenses, you should be assessing what and where I’m planning to strike.” Again he launched into a swirling, driven demi-volte.
This time Cope managed to get his rapier horizontal rather than vertical, and he didn’t drop his blade, though the blow knocked his arm almost to the ground.
“Damn, but you’re weak,” Jem commented.
“That’s not a very nice comment, Papa,” Eugenia said.
He blinked and turned around. “Stay well away from the fight, poppet. I’m afraid that Mr. Cope’s blade might fly from his hand again.”
“She shouldn’t be here,” Cope said, catching his breath.
Jem narrowed his eyes. “I can watch out for my child.”
“You may be able to watch, but I can’t guarantee that I can hold onto my rapier, given the forcefulness with which you are conducting this…tutorial.”
Well, who would have thought? The little chicken was turning into a rooster. Jem turned to Eugenia, but she forestalled him.
“I’ll go behind the cabinet, Papa. I can see through, but a rapier could never reach me.” She ran behind a tall glass cabinet.
Jem tossed his blade slightly until he had the right grip. “Mr. Cope?”
“One more time,” Cope said rather grimly. “My shoulder won’t take much more of this.”
“We’ll play again tomorrow morning, and the next,” Jem said cheerfully. “In a week or two you’ll be on the attack yourself.” Then, seeing how low to the ground Cope held the blade, he added: “Perhaps.”
Cope’s jaw tightened and he raised the blade.
“Same again,” Jem said. “Watch my shoulder.”
This time, as he came in a swirling attack from above, Cope’s blade fell smoothly into the proper horizontal position, slid along his blade and damned if he didn’t pink him.
“Bloody hell!” Jem said, dropping his rapier.
Cope put down his own blade in a very unhurried manner. “How unfortunate,” he said, coming over and peering at the small trickle of blood coming from Jem’s arm. “Perhaps we should have waited for rapier caps.”
Jem growled.
Cope was grinning; he was definitely grinning. “A mere twist of the wrist, I think you described it.” Then he turned to Eugenia. “Shall we escort your father downstairs? He needs the attention of his valet.”
Eugenia was bending over Jem’s arm. “I think it’s quite all right, Papa. Look, it’s already stopped bleeding. You must be careful, though, Mr. Cope. My father is not as young as you are.”
Wonderful. Now Jem felt prehistoric.
He stode to the door, Eugenia skipping before him. “I’ll go back upstairs now, Papa,” she said, trotting away.
“I’ll visit before supper,” he called after her.
“Oh, Lord Strange,” Cope said from behind him. “If you will allow me, I am the bearer of a letter for you.”
“What?”
Cope handed over a folded piece of foolscap. Jem opened it and then waved it in the air to dispense with the burst of perfume. “My God, it’s a poem. Anonymous too. Who gave it to you?”
“I couldn’t say,” Cope replied.
He had laughing eyes. For a moment, Jem found himself grinning in response, before he pulled himself together and turned back to the letter.
He read it out loud:
“The dark is my delight,
So ’tis the nightingale’s.”
He turned the page over. “That’s it? Two lines?”
He caught himself, about to ask Cope if he wrote it. He? If Cope wrote such a thing he wanted nothing to do with it. Besides, obviously Cope didn’t write it. The paper was drenched in perfume, and Cope actually had a clean smell, a bit like soap.
He was so angry at himself for knowing what Cope smelled like that he stalked out of the room without another word.
Chapter Fourteen
Friendship in an Unexpected Place
“So have you been regaled by dancing girls yet?” Villiers was reclining in bed, looking as haggard as it was possible for someone so beautiful to look.
Harriet sat down. “It’s been a grave disappointment, but no one performed at breakfast. How are you feeling?”
He grimaced. “That pestilent Scottish doctor of Jemma’s, Dr. Treglown, advised me not to travel and, though it pains me to admit it, he was right. More importantly, how is manhood treating you?”
“Being a man is exhausting,” Harriet said with some feeling. “My rear hurts from riding, and my arm hurts from rapier play, and all my other muscles are sympathetically twanging as well.”
“I gather that Strange
took my dictate to turn you into a man seriously. You’d better watch out; he’s likely to introduce you to a demi-rep this evening. Part of the training.”
“It’s all very well for you to laugh,” Harriet said. Then she put on a lofty air. “As it happens, I already have a lady friend interested in my company.”
“No! How I wish I could get out of this damned bed. Promise me you won’t dismiss her, at least until I see you being wooed.”
“I fully intend to avoid her.”
“That won’t be easy,” Villiers said. “Strange’s house parties are surprisingly large and yet intimate. I didn’t think you’d visit me.”
Harriet looked up. “Why not?”
“You have every reason to hate me.” He said it without any particular inflection. But there was much unspoken: the evening when he rejected her advances and dropped her out of his carriage in the middle of London, the fact that her husband committed suicide after losing to him at chess.
“I did hate you.” It was strangely restful to admit it. “I spent a great deal of time brooding over revenge. It was easier to hate you than to accept that Benjamin chose to leave.”
“Chose to leave is an odd way of talking about suicide.”
“How else would you describe it?”
He hesitated. He really had amazing eyes, black as pitch.
“You think suicide is cowardly,” she said when he didn’t speak immediately.
“Am I wrong?”
“I thought that at first too. I raged at Benjamin the first year: for being such a coward, for not loving me enough, for caring so much about chess that he gave his life for it, for being such a fool. But then I started to think that cowardice is just a point of view.”
“The counterpoint to courage?” His eyes were sympathetic but unconvinced.
“Something like that. Benjamin cared most in the world for chess. I hated that fact while we were married, but it was true. Though he was always amiable, and was certainly fond of me in his own way.”
Villiers didn’t say anything. Harriet made herself continue. “But chess was his passion. And while he was very good at it, he wasn’t the best. So let’s imagine that he had been that wildly in love with me—Don’t laugh!” she said fiercely.