Lord Lyndon shook his head, relaxing a fraction.“No.That was Francis’s pride and joy, and before that, Benedict’s.Naturally, he wasn’t permitted to drag his ponies into the house with him, so old Dobbin was the next best thing.Will and I preferred…more rambunctious games.Especially as older schoolboys.Pirates, highwaymen, you know.Clashing swords and the like.”
Rollo smirked.“Clashing swords, eh?What fun.”
“That sweet, innocent face of yours hides a commonplace mind,” his lordship reprimanded.“You know exactly what I was implying—blunted, wooden swords, beloved of boys everywhere.”He frowned.“Berridge carved them for us.They’re probably still lying around here somewhere.”
“In that old toy chest under the bookcase, I’ll be bound,” cried Rollo, leaping up.He adored toy boxes.Riffling through them generally stirred up all kinds of memories, and one never knew what old treasures hid inside.This one was huge.The clasp fell apart easily enough, but the lid was heavy and stuck as though it hadn’t been opened in years.Legs apart, he braced himself to try again.
“That doesn’t look very much like reading,” Lord Lyndon observed.“You are very much a fidget.”
Over his shoulder, Rollo shot him a quick grin.Fitzsimmons’s hand holding the paint brush had paused halfway to the canvas as though forgotten.His dark eyes stared at Rollo intently, though not at his face.
“And you seem to be admiring my derrière bent over this treasure chest.”Rollo gave it a little wiggle.“A much more favourable subject than the roof of a boring old chapel.Wouldn’t you agree, Lord Lyndon?”
Chapter Fourteen
“I’M SIMPLY INTERESTEDin the contents of the chest,” Lyndon insisted.
On twiggy legs, Duchamps-Avery had danced over to the battered wooden chest and propped the lid open before Lyndon could fabricate a more credible defence.Furious at being caught, Lyndon couldn’t decide which was the more exquisite torture, the view of those spindly legs stretched out on his window seat, trying not to imagine what treasure lay at the meeting of them, or the shapely back view, as Duchamps-Avery bent low at the waist, rummaging.
“Ahoy, Cap’n!Hoist the mainsail!”
The boy straightened and twirled around, brandishing a large wooden sword.Jammed on his head was Lyndon’s old leather three-cornered hat.A yellow silk sash swirled at his neck, lighting up his joyful grin like the sunrise lit up the seven seas.A deep ache in Lyndon’s ballocks, vaguely present since Duchamps-Avery had arranged himself on the window seat, intensified.
Conflicting urges to demand he stop at once and to bend him like a willow twig over the toy chest surged in equal measure.Hell and damnation.What had Will said?Be braver with your life.Not all treasure was silver and gold.
Nonetheless,not even Lyndon would stoop to seduce a man dressed up as a pirate.
“You are absurd,” he chuntered, which only made the pup grin even more.“And you’re not even wearing that hat properly.It’s crooked.The pointy bit goes at the front.”
“What, I should wear it like this you mean?”
Before Lyndon could flap him away, Duchamps-Avery plucked the hat from his own fair head, reached up, and plonked it upon Lyndon’s.His pale eyes sparkled as he admired his handiwork, close enough that Lyndon could stoop and kiss him if he were truly that way inclined.Or at least shove him aside.He did neither, simply glared instead.
“Gadzooks, yes!Piratical indeed, especially with that snarl.”Duchamps-Avery pushed the sword into Lyndon’s hand then spun back to the chest.“A hat made for your head and your head alone!I’d wager swaggering, fearsome Captain Fitzsimmons steered the good ship Goule across the globe on many a happy occasion.Leaving a lovelorn damsel in every port!”
Another sword appeared from the depths of the toy chest, lighter than the first.Duchamps-Avery examined it briefly.“This isn’t the weapon of a fearsome sea captain.”He tossed it to one side.“The trinket belonging to a mere landlubber, perhaps.Too small by far.”
He threw Lyndon a quick sunbeam over his shoulder, pointing to the first sword that he’d handed him.Obligingly, Lyndon gave it a little flourish.
“Yes.I believe this one did belong to me,” he admitted, hefting it in his hand.
“The weapon of a wicked pirate king,” Duchamps-Avery declared.“As soon as I laid eyes on it, I knew it was yours.Why am I not surprised that you wielded the largest, most impressive of swords, my lord?”
Defeated by Duchamps-Avery’s ebullient humour, Lyndon sank into the nearest armchair, his grumbles about peace and quiet and solitude and childishness landing on deaf ears.The way the boy bandied aroundsword, making no attempt to sound anything but vulgar was, well, having an effect on Lyndon’s personal, private sword that did not bear thinking about.
A pair of colourful pantaloons joined the second, smaller sword on the floor, along with the epauletted, long-skirted coat of a French infantry soldier and a bejewelled reticule once owned by Lyndon’s grandmother.He hoped the baubles were made from paste but, from the lustre, had a dreadful feeling they weren’t.
“Ah!”The boy pounced on another long bolt of heavy material, heaving it out and sending a cloud of dust spiralling into the air.“What do we have here, my hearties?”
Lyndon covered his mouth and nose as Duchamps-Avery vigorously coughed, bringing tears to his eyes.Flapping one of his silly, dainty hands in front of his face, he shook out the ruby silk garment, awash with a bold yellow floral brocade as if a meadow of dandelions were growing out from the fabric.
“Even the moths daren’t attack this.”Duchamps-Avery flattened it against himself, clearing dust from his throat and counting the layers.“Good lord, how many petticoats does one dress need?And look at all this puffery!I could lose both my arms forever down one of these sleeves!”
“My grandmother was a robust lady,” Lyndon observed.“And you are not.”
He expected a witty retort, but none was forthcoming because Duchamps-Avery was too busy fiddling at the fall of his trousers and—
“What in heavens name are you doing, boy?”Lyndon spluttered.“This isn’t a bath house!”
