Lucy sighed.“We’ll just have to put up with his unhappiness a bit longer then, won’t we?Mr Berridge will never retire.”
“What did his lordship used to be like?”Rollo pressed.“Was he really as charming as Cook says?”
Lucy nodded.“When I was a nipper, he was all that and some.Everyone said so.And even though Lord Benedict was good and kind and never put a boot wrong, Lord Lyndon was always the servant’s favourite.He had a way with him, see.Used to coax the birds from the trees.The local lasses didn’t stand a chance; they all used to fancy him rotten.Him and young Will were here, there, and everywhere, getting into scrapes, then getting out of them on their wits.”
“Will?”Rollo turned from the window, just as a bell rang out in the hallway.“Who’s Will?”
“A friend.Local lad.”Her head jerked up at the bell.“Goodness, it’s that time already.That’ll be Cook calling.She’ll have my guts for garters if she hears I’ve been gossiping.Now, sir, if you leave that shirt out, I’ll see it gets mended.”
Chapter Six
My dearest Willoughby.Wish me luck.I’m venturing into the drawing room.For armour, I have only my fortitude and my wits.If I am an absent correspondent over the coming days, send for reinforcements!
Dear Papa.Lord Lyndon and I pass most of our evenings in the drawing room.He has an insatiable interest in the first regiment of the Coldstream Guards.Fascinating!
WITH A VAGUEfeeling of déjà vu mixed with a much more well-defined trepidation, Rollo scratched at the drawing room door.Inside, all was quiet.Perhaps his lordship wasn’t there this evening.That would be typical of Rollo’s luck—the first occasion he plucked up the courage to join his host was the one evening his host was elsewhere.In which case, he’d sit awhile with a book.If nothing else, it would be an evening spent contemplating a different set of four walls.
The back of Lord Lyndon’s head greeted him, his long wavy hair falling about his shoulders like sheets of rust.So absorbed in whatever he was doing, the man hadn’t heard Rollo open the door, obliging Rollo to fake a ridiculous little polite cough.A flurry of activity ensued as Lord Lyndon thrust whatever occupied him under a cushion, yet not before Rollo caught a glimpse of paper and a crayon.
“Good evening, my lord.”He prayed his voice sounded surer of itself out loud than it did in his head.“Might I join you in a glass?”
“Does Papa allow it?”answered his lordship gruffly.
“I think we established my age at our last meeting, my lord.”
Whilst maturity was not on Rollo’s side, his steely aristocratic forebears were.He absolutely would not be cowed even though his palms perspired and his tone tended towards the waspish, especially when anxious, like now.Rollo had a feeling Lord Lyndon wasn’t much for waspish men.Too bad.Another evening spent alone in his room might turn Rollo stark raving mad.
Lord Lyndon shrugged as if it mattered not what Rollo did, which Rollo suspected wasn’t far from the truth.Daringly, he helped himself to a snifter of port; the lesser of the two evils on offer.Even more daring, he took a seat, uninvited, on the settee opposite his host.
In excruciating silence, they both drank.Rollo tried not to peer at a corner of foolscap sticking out from under a cushion whilst his host toyed with the little wooden bow in his lap.A neat row of pewter foot soldiers on the mantel mutely observed them both.Sipping cautiously, Rollo reflected on small mercies.He had not been used as target practice, and Fitzsimmons wasn’t watering the fireplace.
Fully aware it was the sort of dull pronouncement a maiden aunt might make, but unable to bear the silence any longer, Rollo offered, “May I say this is a very nicely proportioned room, my lord.It is well-positioned to catch the evening light.”His gaze landed on a harpsichord half hidden under an embroidered throw.“Do you play?”
Lord Lyndon’s dark eyes followed the direction of his gaze.“No.Nor does anyone who comes here.Instrument’s as useless as tits on a bull.”
If his lordship was endeavouring to be especially boorish, then he was succeeding.He swigged from his glass, making no move to wipe away the trickle of red liquid running down his chin.Then he put the empty glass down and picked up the bow properly, testing the string.
“How do you occupy your time here at Goule, my lord, if I may be so forward as to enquire?Do you read?You have a splendid library.”
“No.”
“What about keeping abreast of newssheets and such?”
“No.Full of half-truths and lies.”
At breakfast, Rollo’s father could frequently be heard bemoaning the same.“Then your time must be taken up with estate matters.”
“No.”
“Billiards?”
“No.”
“Do you ride?Fence?Box?”An air of exasperation crept into Rollo’s voice.Really, the man was quite insufferable.
“Fencing is a sport for simpering foreign dandies.”He swigged again.“I ride women, and I box inquisitive young pups.”
Fine.If that was the game his lordship wanted to play, then Rollo would prove himself a worthwhile adversary.“Goodness, then you must be terribly bored,” he countered, “Seeing as there is a paucity of both here at Goule.No wonder you’ve resorted to child’s play.”
