* * *
“He will want to visit his club.” Lizzie picked up the salver James had been polishing. The serpent’s tail coiled around the edge, framing the fanged mouth devouring a winged victory. She replaced it on the sideboard only to discover her fingers stained with the polishing rouge. Why hadn’t she worn her gloves?
She wiped her hands on a clean cloth but the red stain only faded to pink, as if her hands were blushing. “The viscount probably has a mistress in London.” Her voice shook. She couldn’t bear to think of what the Beast might do in that sinful place.
“Not him, my lady. And if he does, then you have a reason to leave him. If you can catch him in the act, then he’d have to let you go.”
“But how can I do that? He is not likely to invite me along.” Lizzie did not want to participate in his debaucheries. Not like her mother who’d played every wicked game her husband suggested. If only he hadn’t shared the memories of it.
“If you keep him in leading strings,” said James, “if you make it clear you’ll not tolerate any absences but must know where he is at all times, then any mistress he has would have to come to him. If he had one, which in all honesty I must declare I doubt.”
Lizzie dared not do it. The Beast in London, free to do as he wished, with her there to catch his disease every midnight. “I cannot do it. I cannot.”
The door swung open silently. A gust of air and James’s intake of breath made Lizzie turn to see who had entered.
The Beast ducked his head to get into the room. James leaped sideways away from her to clench his fists with a look of dismay on his handsome face.
Lizzie felt her body respond to her husband’s presence in a most embarrassing way. It warmed to him. Even as she looked around for a weapon with which to defend James.
The Beast stood tall and lean, his clothes molded to his body. She gave a guilty start. Had she been tainted by his passion?
She must learn to tolerate him mutely. She must learn not to cling to his nightshirt.
It had been so very undignified.
“Come to see your silver, dear heart?” the viscount asked with an enquiring glance at her before his attention turned to James.
Lizzie saw James nod but he still stood with clenched fists. Did he expect the Beast to attack him?
“Come, my love, let’s leave Jim to his work.” The viscount held his hand out to her. “You can explain to me what you cannot do.” He advanced on her with a grim smile. Suddenly, his gaze was drawn to the window.
Lizzie turned to see what had caught his eye, glad for an excuse not to take his hand. What was Mrs. Thwaite doing there? Running along the path as if the devil himself were after her!
“Jim, something’s wrong with Ma. Come on.” The Beast turned on his heel and raced from the room. Only a cry of “Mind your head” from James made him duck through the doorway.
Lizzie ran after them. They left the house through the door on the rustic level that gave access to the wine cellars. The two men far outpaced her. By the time she reached them, Mrs. Thwaite was well into her story.
“That French duck stole her like the thief he is,” panted the frantic woman. “I warned him you’d have his head, but how could I stop a duck, I ask you, a French duck?”
“What happened, Mrs. Thwaite?” Lizzie gasped her question, rather breathless from the run down to the lake.
“A frog has gone and stolen Sarah.” Mrs. Thwaite straightened her shawl with an angry tug. “A nasty foreigner has stolen her from her bed. Begging your pardon, Lady Felmont, Lord Felmont, I couldn’t stop him.”
“There is no need at all for you to apologize to us, Ma,” said the viscount. “Don’t worry about it. There was nothing you could do.” He put an arm around the old woman’s shoulders.
Lizzie couldn’t believe her ears. Why wasn’t he furious? Why wasn’t he rushing off to rescue the little girl? His daughter had been kidnapped by a Frenchman. Lizzie wasn’t quite sure what the word duck meant, but she was sure it was some lower class insult of the worst kind. A French highwayman! He might be the same one who had broken her arm when he robbed her mother.
“Never a by your leave, or word of explanation. Off with her he went. There was no stopping him.” Mrs. Thwaite cast a wary eye on Lizzie, who tried to stop breathing too fast from fear. “I said your lordship had to be consulted, but he’d ’ave none of it. Carried her off, with her clinging to him and chattering away, along with that French governess and her maids. Said you knew where to find him.”
Lizzie grabbed James by the arm. “Tell the outriders to get ready. I want them armed. We will ride after them, he can’t have gone far.” She had to stop for air. Why was everyone staring at her? Sarah had been kidnapped by a French thief. A duck of the worst kind. “Go! Go! A French highwayman has kidnapped Sarah!” Fear for the child made her heart pound in her breast. Her lungs gasped for air.
The viscount said quietly, “Dear Lizzie, you are the only one who doesn’t know that Sarah has been living with the duke since she was born. There is no need to fear for her safety.”
“Eeh!” Mrs. Thwaite slipped out of the his embrace to pat Lizzie on the back. “You sound like our Molly did when she found out about her William. There, there, Lady Felmont.”
Dace stepped towards his wife. “I really must insist you do not race after him to shoot him, dear heart. After all, Saint Sirin is a French duc, or as Ma says he is a duck.”
He gently removed her hand from Jim’s arm.
“Is he French?” snapped poor Lizzie, indignant at her ignorance. “I always thought he was an English duke,”
“As you had hysterics and refused to be polite to French guests—you were the most spoiled brat that ever breathed—most of them were called Austrian or Belgians, or, if their English was good enough, they became honorary British.”
He could not resist the temptation to tease her. “Saint Sirin grew up here after his parents were shorn of their heads, so he was called English. And it was dismissal with no references if anyone told you different.”
The lady lifted her nose and tried for an imitation of the Felmont stare. It made her look absurd and so very young. It was all he could do not to laugh.
“I was not a spoiled brat. The only Frenchman I had ever met deliberately broke my arm because my mother did not divest herself of her jewels fast enough. He tortured me. You would not find it so amusing if it had happened to you, Felmont.”
He could well remember Lizzie’s screams of agony. They had haunted him for years, until battle gave another perspective to pain and suffering.
The intimate caress of his fingers touching hers made his wife turn away. “Come to London with me, Lizzie. Let’s show this damned Frenchman that we are not to be walked over.”
He pleaded with a cajoling air, “We must visit the Duke of Saint Sirin to teach him he cannot ride roughshod over good English folk because he is a duke. Only a French duck, dear heart, shall we trounce him to make him quack an acknowledgement of our British superiority?”
His wife pulled her naked hand away. “French dukes can’t just steal English children. You must send for the magistrate. Mr. Whittaker will force him to give Sarah back. We must get the outriders armed to go after them. With their aid, you can claim your child and bring her here to live with you. My offer stands to go to London for one day only.”
“Not long enough, my dear wife.” He caught her gloveless hand and raised it to kiss her fingers. “When I get Sarah back, she will be raised at the Priory with all my children.” He did not allow her to withdraw her hand.
Ma looked back and forth between them as if she were at a play. “Are you serious about that, our Dace?” She did not look pleased at his words.
He’d explain it to her on the way back to the Priory. “Jim, order a carriage. I’ll take Ma home.”
“Nay, I shall walk,” said Ma. “Never fear, ‘tis only a mile by the path.”
“Nonsense, Mrs. Thwaite.” His wife linked her arm with Ma’s
to pull her towards the Folly. “You must come in and have some tea. I shall be very pleased to have your company.”
Never a truer word spoken. His wife disdained him and could not wait to be rid of him.
“I’d be right glad of a dish of tea, Lady Felmont, I’m parched.”
Lizzie led her captive away. She had not been pulled about by Thwaites for naught. The technique was simple, hold on and keep moving. “Have you ever been inside the house? I’d be happy to give you a tour after you have finished your tea.”
“What a treat! I’ve always wanted to have a look inside.” Mrs. Thwaite glanced back at her tall foster son, who was deep in conversation with James. “He won’t like you crossing him like that, if you don’t mind me saying so, Lady Felmont.”
“Please, call me Lizzie. Every time I am called Lady Felmont, I look around for my mother.”
“That’s right kind of you, Lizzie. What a great house it is.” They stepped inside near the iron clad door to the wine cellar. “You can call me Ma, Lizzie, everyone does, if it would please you to do so.”
“It would please me very much, Ma.” Lizzie led the way towards the back stairs that led to the servery behind the Chinese dining room, which was now stripped of its red wallpaper at the viscount’s request. For the first time, Lizzie wondered why he’d thought of redecorating on their wedding night.
Charles and Arthur sprang to their feet, dice tumbled to the floor. “Ma! Beg pardon, Lady Felmont.” They hung their heads and received a rain of blows on their backs from their mother.
“Gambling! I’ll give you gambling, so help me!” shouted Ma Thwaite. The little woman clenched her fists and waved them under their noses. “Gamble like your father, would you? I’ll beat some sense into you with a horsewhip, so I will!”
The young men muttered apologies. Lizzie had a sudden urge to see the Beast on the receiving end of Ma Thwaite’s tiny fists. Unfortunately, few of the Felmonts were addicted to the vice of gambling, they preferred more carnal sports.