Band Sinister Page 17

  Philip found himself speechless for a moment. “I am not ‘doing that’, whatever you mean by ‘that’. I’ve no intention of lying to him—”

  “I never lied to you,” Corvin said gently.

  “No, I know that, but John seems to think I’m playing the London rake with the country boy and that’s not fair.”

  “Lots of things aren’t fair,” John said. “All I’m saying is, you don’t normally do slamming doors, or seducing innocents, or amours. When was the last time you fucked anyone who wasn’t us?”

  “Yesterday,” Philip snapped.

  “Before that.”

  “It was— I don’t know, why does it matter? A few months, I suppose. A year, at most.”

  “Oh yes? Who?”

  “God, I don’t know. Obviously I know, I’ve just misplaced the name. His father was a Cit, cotton manufacturer.” John was looking at him sardonically. Philip cudgelled his brain, and came up with, “Maudsley, that’s it. Happy now?”

  “If you mean Mabersley, and you do, it was more like two years,” Corvin said. “I remember, even if you don’t. He cried on my shoulder about you.”

  If Philip had ever known that, he’d entirely forgotten. He felt a mild twinge of guilt. “Over me? Why?”

  “Don’t worry about it. I cheered him up.”

  Philip glared. “I bet you did. Would you mind—”

  “The point is,” John said loudly, “it’s two years since you fucked anyone else, and longer since you fucked anyone you cared to remember the name of. But now you have to have the country boy who doesn’t know what he’s doing and has nowhere to go with it. That’s not seeming fair to me either.”

  Nowhere to go.

  That was truer than John knew. Guy was tied to Yarlcote and to Amanda, and that was a problem. Philip had no desire to spend more time than necessary here in this house whose every room reminded him of his ill-starred birth. He far preferred London’s excitements and comforts, and even if he had harboured an urge for rural simplicity, he’d burned his bridges very thoroughly indeed with the neighbours. He could probably increase the frequency of his visits to a few times a year, but he could never set foot in the Frisbys’ house for fear of endangering Amanda’s reputation, and of course every visit Guy made to him without the excuse of her convalescence would be spoken about with shock and disapproval because of the Frisbys’ runaway mother and Philip’s sodding prick of a half-brother.

  “Shit,” he said.

  “If I may make a contrary point?” Corvin suggested. “I agree our beloved bastard baronet is not known for heartfelt affairs. Or even for putting in more than the very minimum of effort, come to that. Yet you’re bothering now. Is he special, Phil?”

  Philip thought about Guy’s sunlit eyes, his steadfast heart, his stammering, unfurling desires. “Yes. Yes, he is. Which doesn’t make John wrong.”

  “Yes and no,” Corvin said. “Love is no less because it doesn’t last forever, or even for long. You may be the only man who ever makes him feel wanted, after all. I trust you to do a good job of it, and to leave him with pleasant memories in the end.”

  “You always say things like that, and I’ve never known it help at all,” John said. “‘Heart broken, crying your eyes out? Don’t worry about it. This will just seem like an amusing diversion when you’re fifty.’”

  “I don’t see any advantage in reaching the age of fifty without pain if you’ve also reached it without pleasure,” Corvin said. “And really, a broken heart is a great deal less than a broken leg. ‘Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love.’ We get better. Phil? What is it?”

  “We get better,” Philip repeated. “Oh God. Oh shit.”

  “What on earth—” Corvin began, but Philip was already heading out of the room. He needed to think.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Guy did not find the eleven o’clock service at St. Mary’s to be a particularly spiritual experience. For one thing, he was attending with a member of the Murder, albeit the respectable-looking George Penn, who proved to be a pleasant, thoughtful companion. For another, he was vividly conscious of his own less than virtuous goings-on and felt a peculiar lack of remorse over them. He didn’t in truth believe he’d done anything wrong, and the sermon, which was on the topic of Exodus 28, The Manufacture of the Breastplate of Aaron, did nothing to prick his conscience. Several people fell asleep and Penn began to hum, almost but not quite imperceptibly, clearly working on a tricky phrase.

  Guy didn’t daydream, because he knew what he’d daydream of and that was definitely not appropriate in church, and because he was being looked at. It was a familiar and unwelcome sensation, and he wasn’t surprised to be accosted once they were allowed out into the sunlight once more.

  Mr. Welland made his way over, and Guy turned to him rather than the several others heading in his direction. Penn slipped away to examine the old carvings. That was a relief. Guy could see people looking at him and murmuring to one another and felt himself shrink on Penn’s behalf. It must be bad enough to have people gathering around one because of one’s colour; he didn’t want to imagine how things might go if Penn were identified as a member of the Murder.

  “Mr. Frisby. I’m glad to see you. How is Miss Frisby?”

  “Recovering, I’m glad to say. It was an extremely bad break, you may have heard? We were afraid for her life and she suffered a terrible fever for days, but she’s very much on the mend.”

  “And...she is still at Rookwood Hall?” Mr. Welland lowered his voice in a conspiratorial manner that just drew attention.

  “Yes, Sir Philip has been extremely generous,” Guy said, willing himself to seem calm. “We’ve entirely disrupted his household, but the doctor feels she can’t be moved at all for another week at the very earliest, and probably longer. The bone has to mend straight, you see.”

  “But Rookwood Hall,” Mrs. Arnold said. She was the churchwarden’s wife, and a moral pillar of the parish. “It cannot be right.”

  “Sir Philip has been extremely generous,” Guy repeated, slightly louder. “Amanda has attendance day and night to keep her company, and I’m staying in the Hall as well. There is really no other choice.”

  “But does he not have that disreputable set of persons present?” Mr. Welland asked. “I’ve heard nothing but ill of his set.”

  “I haven’t seen any disreputable behaviour,” Guy said inaccurately. “Sir Philip’s guests include a composer, a famous London violinist, and several men of science. And none of them have been anything but gentlemanly in my presence, still less Amanda’s. Believe me, I was as concerned as you, but I have reached the conclusion that he doesn’t entirely deserve his reputation.”

  “Mr. Frisby,” Mrs. Arnold said, swelling. “I have never—not once!—seen Sir Philip at divine service, nor heard that he has a clergyman in his household, and I am not aware that he takes the slightest interest in parish affairs.”

  “No, well, I couldn’t speak to his beliefs,” Guy said. “I think that’s a matter for his conscience.”

  “And is it not true that he associates with”—she lowered her voice—“Viscount Corvin?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  Mrs. Welland shook her head. “There’s such terrible things said of him, Mr. Frisby. My nephew is a tailor in London, he sends us all the latest on-dits.”

  “I’m not sure they’re entirely—”

  Mrs. Arnold put her hand to her bosom. “Is Lord Corvin present? In the Hall?”

  “I’ve barely seen him,” Guy said loudly. “And he has neither sought nor been permitted to converse with my sister. Mrs. Arnold, we have no choice but to keep Amanda at Rookwood Hall until her bone has healed. I don’t think you understand that her life hung by a thread. To be moved might have killed her. Under the circumstances, I think Sir Philip and his guests have been extremely considerate. Sir Philip expressed the hope to me that we might bring the bad blood between the Rookwoods and Frisbys to an end. I think he has d
one as much as anyone could to ensure a situation of nobody’s seeking went as well as could possibly be expected.”

  “I am astonished to hear you say so,” Mrs. Arnold said. “I hope I am capable of Christian charity, but I should find it very difficult to extend a hand of forgiveness to Sir Philip, still less to allow a young lady to remain in his household, after the manner in which he has conducted himself. Very difficult indeed.”

  “I shouldn’t worry; I don’t suppose he’ll ask you to do so,” Guy said, causing Mr. Welland to turn away and cough. “Amanda would probably have died without his hospitality, and the help of his doctor; I certainly doubt she would have walked again. Her recovery is all that matters to me, and Sir Philip has been as attentive and concerned and kind to us as anyone could possibly be, and I shall always be grateful for his consideration. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must get back to my sister.”

  “Something wrong?” George Penn asked, as Guy set a slapping pace down the lane.

  “Just people. Gossip and spite. They all wanted me to say that Philip was a monster.”

  “I wouldn’t worry. He and Corvin bring it on themselves.”

  “But it’s not true. He’s been marvellously kind. All of you have.”

  Penn shrugged. “No harm done. Philip won’t care.”

  “I care,” Guy said, before he could stop himself.

  “I see you do. If you don’t mind my saying so, I’d let him look after himself. He doesn’t need defending and there’s no need to get heated on his behalf.”

  It was a warning, Guy realised. Kindly meant, not a rebuke, but a warning all the same, and he still felt a little unnerved by the time they arrived home.

  At Rookwood Hall, rather. Not home.

  HE HAD LUNCHEON IN the sickroom, feeling that he needed more time with Amanda, and spent much of it being told off.

  “I’m sorry,” he got in, after her lengthy exposition on why he was a snake and a weasel for claiming her responsibility as his. “I was just fretting so dreadfully, and I got terribly tangled up in my head.”

  “I don’t understand why,” Amanda said. “I know why you fret and why you constantly try to protect me even though I’m twenty-three and I haven’t done anything stupid since—”

  “—writing the book—”

  “—my Season,” she went on firmly, “but I don’t see why you thought Sir Philip of all people would be unkind even if he was angry. Nobody talks about him having a bad temper or fighting duels or killing people.”

  Guy wondered whether he could decently tell Amanda that Philip had kicked the man who’d ruined her where it would do most good. He decided he couldn’t, with a small pang of regret. She’d have been pleased. “No. He isn’t that sort.”

  “And you’ve told me a dozen times how kind he is.”

  “Have I?” Guy asked, with a pulse of alarm.

  “Yes. I think it’s marvellous, dearest. Neither of us has any real friends here, do we?”

  “No.” Since her disgrace, Amanda had not been invited to gatherings with other young ladies of her age and class, and Guy had declined invitations from those who cold-shouldered his sister until they dwindled to nothing.

  “I can see you didn’t want to lose his good opinion,” Amanda went on. “But I don’t think you’re in danger of that. He seems perfectly lovely to me. David thinks awfully highly of him.”

  “Are you sure you ought to be on first-name terms with Dr. Martelo?” Guy asked.

  Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t be. He is my doctor.”

  “You’re not on first-name terms with Dr. Bewdley.” Amanda glowered. Guy held up his hands. “I’m just asking, Manda.”

  “Considering everything, I can’t see it does any harm,” Amanda said. “I’m enjoying having a friend as much as you are and there’s nothing improper in it.”

  “I know there isn’t,” Guy said, all too aware which of them was up to impropriety. “Just as long as Jane doesn’t gossip.”

  “It doesn’t much matter if she does. It’s been five years since my Season and people are still talking about me. I dare say people at church had opinions on me staying here.”

  “More about Philip than you, but...well, yes.”

  “Of course they did, and I’m quite sure they’re gossiping now. I made a mistake and nobody will ever let me forget it, or think anything else about me. So I don’t see what I gain by trying to be virtuous now if nobody will believe me anyway.”

  “It’s about what you know,” Guy said. “Not what other people think. For goodness’ sake, people seem to believe that Philip is a monster of depravity, and that other people are sinners when they’re just human and not doing any harm. If you know in your heart you’re not doing wrong or hurting anyone including yourself, I think that’s as much as we can ask of anyone. And I’m sick of living in fear of people who are so desperate to find fault they’ll make it up where no harm exists.”

  “Goodness,” Amanda said. “You sound fierce.”

  “Mrs. Arnold.” Guy knew no further explanation was required.

  Amanda rolled her eyes. “And she’s thick as thieves with Dr. Bewdley. I suppose she thought you ought to drag me out of here with this horrid block and tackle still attached to my foot. Well, if people insist on having nasty minds, we can’t stop them. I shan’t let it spoil things now, and I hope you won’t either.”

  “Agreed,” Guy said, and tried not to worry about what things might be spoiled. “I was wondering, Manda. Do you think I ought to write to Aunt Beatrice?”

  “Good heavens, no. Why would you do that? The last thing we need is for her to learn we’re staying here.”

  “Except it would be even worse if she found out and we hadn’t told her.”

  “Ugh. Yes. But she won’t find out, surely? Nobody here is in her circle, and they’ve all been very careful about not compromising me, as if they could. I’m sure nobody will gossip.”

  “What if someone in Yarlcote writes to her?”

  Amanda considered that. “Surely not. She’s not on terms with anyone here, is she? Far too high and mighty. No, honestly, Guy, I think it’s best not. Imagine if she came up to chaperone me in person.”

  That was a horrific thought. Guy let himself be persuaded, since he truly didn’t want to write to Aunt Beatrice, and left Amanda with Martelo, trying not to look too interrogatively at the man. It was only first names.

  Philip was neither in his study nor the drawing room. Guy knocked at the door of the parlour upstairs, in case, entered at Raven’s shout, and found the artist in a chair contemplating his canvas and Lord Corvin sitting on the floor by him. He was resting his head against Raven’s thigh; Raven was stroking his long reddish hair. Both looked up as Guy came in; neither changed position.

  “Oh. Uh. Excuse me.”

  Corvin waved a languid hand, making no effort to move. “Not at all. Do I understand your sister is the authoress of that glorious book?”

  “Uh. Yes. Yes, she is.”

  “How entirely marvellous. I must offer my apologies for my remarks last night; please do me the favour of forgetting I spoke. And please offer her my congratulations, also. You may decline without offence, but I should love to be introduced to Miss Frisby. She has a sprightly style that I found charming, and I would be delighted to be of service if she has future works in mind and needs inspiration.”

  “Sweet Jesus, no,” Raven said.

  “Why not? She needs colourful detail, and intimate social references to catch the readers’ imagination. I can supply those aplenty.”

  “In two years’ time, when St. James’s is a smouldering heap of ashes, I’m going to remind you of this conversation and say I told you so.”

  “He’s so gloomy,” Corvin told Guy, in confiding manner. Raven tugged at his hair. “Ouch. Don’t do that unless you mean it. Are you looking for Philip?”

  “I was,” Guy said. “Er, about my sister...”

  “By all means observe the proprieties as you
and she see fit,” Corvin said. “But do tell her she’s marvellous and I hope she writes more, and if you ever travel to London, you must ask John to introduce her to his friend in the same field. Professional connections are terribly useful. Talking of fields, that’s where you’ll find him.”

  “What? Who?”

  “Philip, dear boy. I am told that, unfeasible as it may seem, he was looking for trees to climb. It seems you’re having an extraordinary influence on him.”

  Raven pulled his hair again, harder this time, jerking Corvin’s head back. He gave a sharp hiss, but his lips curved unmistakably. “Let him be, you prick,” Raven said. “Don’t mind this one, Frisby, he’s an idiot. Phil’s out somewhere past the back of the walled garden.”

  Guy stammered excuses and fled. He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d just seen, but he was entirely sure that he’d been meant to see it. Raven and Corvin? Philip had never hinted at such a thing. Did he even know? Then again, he’d been adamant that his friends wouldn’t care if they knew about himself and Guy. It was possible that there was more going on among the Murder than he’d realised.

  He found Philip in the orchard, sitting on a bench in the dappled shade, reading The Secret of Darkdown.

  “Good afternoon,” Guy said. “I was told you were climbing trees.”

  “I would have been if any of them looked climbable.” Philip put the book down and smiled. It was an extraordinary smile, oddly tentative, a little uncertain even, but so warm that Guy lost his breath. “Apparently someone cuts off the lowest branches, I assume for good, practical reasons. Or possibly I have the wrong sort of trees.”

  “Why did you want to climb a tree?”

  “I thought you might join me in, or up, one. You could join me here instead.”

  Guy wondered as he approached how it would be to sit at Philip’s feet, as Corvin had, and rest his head on those tight buckskins and the strong thigh they hid. He didn’t dare try such a thing, so he sat on the bench instead and let himself exhale.