Cinders & Sapphires (8 page)

“Sir, I really think you should slow down!” Oliver shouted above the roar of the engine. The dirt and dust of the road rattled by and the hedgerows passed in a blur of green.

Sebastian glanced at him, an exhilarated grin on his face. He looked like a Greek god in his chariot, golden and vengeful.

“Ah, come on, Oliver. Don’t you like to live dangerously?” he shouted back.

He held Oliver’s eyes for just a second longer than was necessary before the De Dion–Bouton reached the next bend and he had to look back at the road. It was just long enough for Oliver’s heartbeat to speed up in response. He looked away, pressing his lips together to stifle an answering, unvaletlike smile. You don’t know the half of it, he thought.

“Where are we going, sir?” He glanced back at the picnic hamper in the back.

Sebastian pulled the car to the side of the road, slammed on the brakes, and brought them to a shuddering halt. The silence was like a thunderclap. Oliver blinked at the blue sky. Small noises like the birds in the trees and the creaking noise of the car’s metal became audible in the sudden stillness.

They had stopped on a patch of grass surrounded by willows and small shrubs. Oliver climbed down, aware of his dusty face and the hot sun making him sweat inside his uniform. Sebastian got down too. He brushed his blond fringe from his sweaty forehead and, with another provocative—at least, Oliver thought it was provocative—glance at Oliver, strode toward the trees.

Oliver hesitated before following. He went to the car and lifted out the picnic basket. One thing was for sure, he was not going to make the same mistake as last time. Caution was everything.

He followed Sebastian down through the trees, trying not to slip as he carried the picnic basket down the narrow, muddy path. He was so busy looking at his feet that when he looked up he was startled to find himself on the shores of a small lake. The water was calm and blue as the sky, and a jetty led out into the water, a rowing boat moored to it. In the distance was Somerton, small as a doll’s house, and Sebastian stood at the end of the jetty, stripping his shirt from his muscular, clean-cut chest.

Oliver found himself breathless. He was glad Sebastian was not looking in his direction. He turned away and looked for a dry spot for the picnic basket.

When he turned back, Sebastian was in the water, and his clothes were tossed aside on the jetty.

Oliver went to collect them. Sebastian, treading water at the end of the jetty, looked up.

“I hope you like this spot. It seemed the best place to go to get away from all that rot.”

He nodded toward the house. A month had passed since Lord and Lady Westlake’s wedding, but the stream of guests arriving to congratulate the new couple seemed endless.

Distantly, the sound of shots cracked the air.

“The shooting season, sir?”

“Yes. I fail to see why humans find their amusement in destroying life.”

He swam a few slow, strong strokes out into the lake. Oliver watched the water ripple from his shoulder muscles.

“I must say I agree, sir.”

Sebastian turned in the water, smiling up at him. It was a devilish smile, which Oliver knew very well by now. He suspected that Sebastian also knew its effects.

“Why don’t you come in too? It seems a shame to have you stand there hot and sweaty when you could be cooling off.” He paused. “Especially when there is no one here to see us.”

So I was right, thought Oliver. He said, “I’m not sure it would be appropriate, sir,” and turned away with the clothes, to hide the broad smile on his face. Caution, Oliver, he told himself. No one who involved himself with a Greek god ever came out of it happily. The immortals flew away in their chariots of fire, but Phaëthon crashed to earth.

“It wouldn’t be appropriate for a master and a valet to swim together,” Sebastian said lazily behind him, “but you’re not an ordinary valet, are you, Oliver?”

Oliver almost froze. He managed to keep walking, but his heart was beating fast now, and not with pleasure. What does he know? he thought. He pretended not to have heard, and Sebastian did not call him back.

Behind the screen of the trees, he placed the clothes safely with the picnic basket. As he did so, a letter fell from the pocket. Oliver picked it up. The hand was uneducated; it was addressed
Master Sebastian.

The temptation to open it lasted for only a second, but it was very strong. Oliver placed the letter back in its pocket and walked back to the jetty. Perhaps his reply would be treated as insolence, but in such circumstances, a fair employer would excuse a little insolence.

“Maybe,” he said, as if their conversation had not been interrupted. “But perhaps none of us are exactly what we seem, are we, Master Sebastian?”

Sebastian smiled up at him from the water. It was a thoughtful smile, hard to read. Beneath the surface of the water his body seemed white and liquid. Distantly, the guns of the shooting party echoed. Oliver made himself meet Sebastian’s eyes with an equally firm gaze. He found himself, to his surprise, liking Master Sebastian. Yes, he liked him a lot.

“Perhaps not,” said Sebastian quietly.

He broke the moment, splashing away from the jetty. Then he turned again in the water.

“I say, Oliver, would it be a bore if I asked you to move the picnic into the boat? We might eat in the center of the lake. That would be amusing, don’t you think? And less chance of being taken for a duck and slaughtered.”

“Certainly, sir.” Oliver, a little relieved and a little disappointed that nothing had happened, went to collect the picnic basket and lugged it to the rowing boat. Cook had packed it well. Champagne bottles clinked against silver, and the boat sank perceptibly in the water when he loaded it in.

He got in the boat and rowed with smooth, fast strokes into the middle of the lake. He had not rowed for a long time, but it was a pleasure to get back into it. Sebastian swam after him. Oliver stopped the boat. They were in the dead center of the lake. Sebastian reached him and propped his elbows on the gunwale. His skin was golden.

“You row very well for a valet, Oliver,” he said thoughtfully. “I can’t think where you learned such a classic stroke.”

Damn, thought Oliver. Before he could cover his confusion, Sebastian was hoisting himself over the wale of the boat. Oliver dropped an oar, which fortunately caught itself in the rowlock.

“Sir, I—your clothes are still on the bank,” he stammered.

Sebastian gave him another of his devastating grins.

“Well, isn’t that inconvenient?”

Ada put her hands over her ears as the guns broke out again in a crackle of shots. Dogs barked and the birds tumbled out of the sky, as if a jealous god had turned them into stones.

“I wish we hadn’t come now,” she said under her breath to Georgiana.

“Oh, I think it’s quite exciting,” Georgiana said. “Have you seen how many Michael’s bagged?”

Ada made a face. She didn’t know what Georgiana saw in the boy. He was moody and sulky, a spoiled little puppy. But perhaps, she thought, she was being unfair. The smell of smoke and blood and wet dog was stifling her. Behind her, the footmen were piling limp, feathered bodies in a pyramid.

“How are we going to eat all these? It’ll take forever.”

“We don’t have to. They’ll get distributed in the village. That’s what Papa said.… Oh, jolly well done!” she exclaimed, as another two ducks fell from the sky in quick succession.

Ada backed away from the guns.

“Where are you going?” Georgiana turned back to her.

“Back to the house.”

“My lady, may I suggest that one of the footmen accompany you?” Cooper loomed gently forward.

“No, thank you, Cooper—I just want to be alone.” Ada almost stumbled in her haste to get away. She hurried on through the woods, following the path they had come down. As the noise of the guns receded and the smell of the hunt lessened, she relaxed.

But alone in the wood, there was nothing to distract her from the thoughts she’d been trying to repress for days.

She was taking a huge risk, she knew it. Her reputation would be ruined if it were known that Ravi had written to her, and that she had replied. But it was so innocent, she told herself. She had made it quite clear they could only be friends—and, on impulse, she had enclosed an article on Indian life she planned to send off to
The Spectator.
After all, he was the perfect person to advise her on it.

Now, though, she almost wished she hadn’t replied. What if he did not write back? What if he did not like her article? What if he was critical, or worse, dismissive? When she thought of him reading it, she felt ready to sink into the ground with embarrassment. Yet she knew it was a good piece of writing—at least, she thought she did. And if she could make a success as a journalist, she would have an independent income. There were so few things that a woman could do to earn money, but this was one of them. Then she would not be so completely dependent on her father—and her stepmother. She would be free. She told herself that that was the only reason she could not sleep for wondering if tomorrow was the day that his letter would reach her.

A shot rang out, almost in her ear, and at the same moment a shout of alarm. Ada instinctively flung up her hands to defend herself. Something black hurtled past her, and thumped to her feet. A splash of blood flew up and soaked her tweed.

There was a crashing in the undergrowth, and a young man came running toward her, his face pale.

“My God! Are you hurt? An inch lower and I might have—”

“Hurt? No! I—it was my own fault. How foolish of me!” Ada gasped out.

“What the devil were you doing walking around in front of the guns?” The man’s color had returned and he was angry now. His blue eyes snapped fire.

“I was trying to get back to the house, but I was—distracted. I must have taken a wrong turn.” The world was turning dizzyingly black and white; dots swam in front of her eyes.

“You’re hurt. Lean on me.” His voice came from far away, and as if he were under the sea she heard him say, “Marston, stop the shoot.”

“No!” She struggled to stand. “I’m not hurt, I’m only shocked, and turned a little faint. Please, don’t stop on my account.” She dropped her head and slowly the world stopped spinning. The man looked into her face with concern. He had well-chiseled, handsome features, the eyes a little pale and very shrewd. A moment later she recognized him from the morning papers. It was Lord Fintan, the Liberal peer who spoke so warmly in favor of women’s suffrage.

“Very well, but you must allow me to escort you to the house.” He hesitated. “It is Lady Ada, isn’t it? I don’t think we were introduced, but I recognize you from Miss Templeton’s description.” He helped her to her feet. “I am Lord Fintan.”

“Of course,” she said warmly. “I owe you a great debt, all Englishwomen do.”

He raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Ah, you follow the news then? Good. I’m glad to see women involving themselves in the life of the nation.”

They strolled along through the woods, away from the noise of the guns and toward the house. Ada was flattered by the way he spoke to her, as if he took her seriously.

“I think we all have a responsibility to involve ourselves,” she went on, “especially in these troubled times. The strikes this year and the problems in Europe…sometimes it seems as if the world is coming to an end.”

He laughed. “This is weighty talk for a shooting party.”

She smiled. “Don’t pretend you came here simply to have your revenge on our pheasant population. I know that after dinner the real work is done.”

“You’re correct,” he agreed. “And very insightful.”

She laughed, and, suddenly conscious of his eyes on her, speeded up her pace. As they left the woods and stepped onto the lawn, a golden-brown leaf fluttered down from above and she caught it and twirled it in her fingers.

“They say that’s good luck,” she said, turning to him. But he was not looking at her anymore. He was looking up to the house, and the terrace, where the dresses of the ladies blossomed like flowers.

“Yes, you’re correct,” he went on, as if he had not heard her last words. “I don’t care for shooting much. I came here to work. But I’m glad to have found pleasure, also.”

Ada followed his gaze and saw Charlotte. She was laughing as she clung to her hat with one hand, and with the other raised a glass of champagne that glittered in the sun.

“How do you know Charlotte?” she said, surprised to find a prick of jealousy in her tone.

“Oh, we danced together a good deal last season,” he replied. Offering her his arm, he escorted her up the terrace steps to the waiting eagle eyes of the ladies.

“I wish that man would do something to help or get out of our way!” Annie snapped, winding through the kitchen to the pantry. Rose, who was helping out by decorating the cakes for tea with candied violets and spun sugar, looked up. The man in question was handsome, but there was something brutal about his heavy features, and his eyes were cold. He was loitering in the passage, a cigarette behind his ear.

“That’s Simon Croker, Lord Fintan’s valet,” she said. “I suppose he’s waiting to attend his master.”

“Well, I wish he would wait somewhere else!” Annie went to the door. “Here, you, if you’re not doing anything, you can take these game pies up to the terrace.”

Simon scowled. “I don’t work for you.”

“You don’t seem to work at all,” Annie retorted.

Simon smiled without humor and lowered his voice. “Here, I’ll tell you what. You do me a favor and I’ll do you one.”

Annie and Rose looked at each other.

“You’ve got the wrong kind of girl,” Rose said with a laugh.

Simon’s lip curled. “Not that sort of favor. I just want to know if it’s true that Sebastian Templeton’s staying here.”

“What’s it to you?” Annie raised her eyebrow at Rose.

“Just curious.”

Rose frowned. It seemed an innocent enough question—but odd. As she was hesitating, the front doorbell rang. Annie started.

“Dear life! Who’s that at this time? Mr. Cooper’s out with the guns and I can’t go, I’m all over flour. You’ll have to, Rose.”

“Me?” Rose was scandalized. “But they don’t like maids answering the door—”

“It’ll have to do for once. Go on, hurry up!”

Rose wiped her hands on her apron, hastily tidied her hair, and ran up the stairs two at a time. By the time she had crossed the marble expanse of the hall to the front door, she had more or less got her breath back. Shyly, she pulled the bolts back and opened the door.

“Rose!” Sebastian Templeton was flushed and swaying slightly on his feet. His eyes sparkled. Behind him was the motorcar, hissing and creaking. His valet, Oliver, his dark curls messed up and his cheeks also red, was unloading a picnic hamper from the car.

“Mr. Templeton!” Rose was confused and then amused. She backed away as Sebastian came striding in, smelling of cologne and champagne. He was not really drunk, she realized, just tipsy. But she could not allow him to go into the drawing room in that state.

“Don’t worry, Rose, I’ve no intention of disturbing my mother and her guests.” Sebastian’s eyes twinkled as he pulled off his gloves and motoring hat and flung them down on the hall table. “We’ve had a simply glorious drive, and we’re in high spirits—isn’t that right, Oliver?”

“It is, sir.” Oliver came after him, laden down with the picnic basket. Rose caught his eye and pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. Then his expression changed, and a shocked look came over his face. He put down the picnic basket and leaped past her, exclaiming, “Sebastian! Are you all right?”

Sebastian
? Rose was shocked to hear Oliver address his master that way. She turned, saw Mr. Templeton, and gasped. His face had turned quite white, and he stumbled as she looked at him—straight into the Westlake Vase.

Rose darted forward to try and catch it, but it was too late. The vase shattered on the floor with a noise like several chandeliers exploding.

Oliver’s arm was around Mr. Templeton, supporting him.

“I’m well—I’m perfectly well,” Sebastian managed to say. His lips were quivering. Oliver led him to a chair, but he shook his valet off. “No—no, I don’t want to sit down.”

“What happened, sir? Were you taken ill? Shall I call the doctor?” Rose, frightened, went toward him, but stepped back as glass crunched underfoot.

“No! That is—thank you. I’m quite well.” He took a deep breath and steadied himself against the wall. The color was returning to his cheeks. “I—I must rest, that’s all. Too much sun and champagne, no doubt.”

He pulled himself up straight and went to the stairs without another word or glance behind him. Oliver, looking puzzled and pale, went after him. Rose caught his arm.

“Are you sure I shouldn’t call the doctor? It wouldn’t be any trouble.”

“I don’t think so,” Oliver replied, in a low voice. “It wasn’t a funny turn, I think. He was looking over there—toward the servants’ door—and unless I’m wrong, he saw something that gave him a shock.”

Rose followed his gaze to the shadows by the door. When she looked back, he was hurrying up the stairs after his master, his face full of concern.

Saw something, thought Rose. Or someone? Now she remembered it, she had not heard the door swing closed after her. She went back to the baize door and looked down the stairs. There was no one there, only a whiff of cigarette smoke.

Whatever it was he saw, she thought, it must have been a big shock. It sobered him right up.

But there was no time to wonder about it. She had to get the ruins of the Averley Vase tidied up—and she was not looking forward to what her mother and Mr. Cooper would say about it.

The table on the terrace was laden with the fruits of the season: game pie, ham, casseroles, stews, and curries. The men applied themselves with vigor; the ladies, conscious of their corsets, held back.

Ada listened carefully to the conversation around her.

“Women’s suffrage is an imperative, not a choice.” Lord Fintan leaned forward to make his point. “It will follow naturally from women’s education.”

“I find women’s education so odd,” Charlotte smiled. “I personally could not wait to get out of the schoolroom.”

It was an innocent enough statement, but Charlotte somehow managed to make it not innocent at all. Lord Fintan smiled and raised his glass of red wine, studying her over the rim.

“Some women are perfect just as they are, and have no need of education to refine their minds,” he answered.

“Lord Fintan, do you really think that women’s education is a good thing?” Ada asked.

“I do.” He added, “My sister is at Oxford, as it happens—”

Ada did not hear the rest of his sentence. Georgiana, sitting next to her, suddenly whispered. “Ada, I feel so unwell.”

Ada turned to her at once. Her face was pale, and she swayed where she sat.

“Georgie!” She put an arm around her, frightened. “Lean on me, dear.” She looked up. “Please, excuse us—she has these turns sometimes.”

Lord Fintan half rose, asking, “Can I help?” but her father was faster. He came hurrying down from the end of the table and helped Ada steer Georgiana away from the table. They placed her in one of the wicker chairs on the terrace. Rose hurried over with a glass of water.

“So silly—I’m much better now.” Georgiana’s color was returning. “I just felt faint for a moment. I can’t think why.”

“But I can,” Lord Westlake said. “You have been overdoing things, as usual. Your health must come first, my dear!” He took the glass and let Georgiana sip from it.

“You should lie down for the rest of the afternoon.” Ada was still frightened. The spots of color in Georgiana’s cheeks, her fast breathing—it had reminded her so much of her mother before she died. They said consumption was not congenital, but a weakness of the lungs might be. “Let me take you inside.”