Band Sinister Read online

  “Yes, Sir Philip,” Lovett agreed, in a tone that very clearly meant, Please stop talking.

  Philip sighed. “Look, just assure them that this is my idea and as such I’ll bear the consequences if it’s a stupid one. If the factory doesn’t work and the beet rot in the fields, that’s my problem.”

  “And a year or two of their lives and hard work for naught,” Lovett said. “It makes a difference, Sir Philip. To put your labour into something that will, as you say, rot in the fields and you know it as you work...” He tailed off, searching for words to articulate the concept, and concluded, “They don’t like it. They don’t want to do it, paid or no. They won’t refuse...”

  “But they won’t be enthusiastic. Or attentive.”

  “Well, if a man’s asked to do a pointless task, he doesn’t generally break his back over it, that’s all.”

  Philip opened his mouth to reply, but was distracted by another roar of laughter, this time even louder. Lovett glanced at the clock. “I will ensure the men know your mind, Sir Philip. Unless there’s anything else, you will want to return to your party.”

  Philip forbore to smile. He was aware that his steward considered his infrequent visits an irritating obstacle to the smooth running of the lands, and didn’t resent it since he had no desire to take on the day-to-day tasks himself. “Thank you. I shall see you on Monday.”

  He showed Lovett out himself, then hesitated in the hall. He hadn’t seen Frisby at breakfast as the man had been with his sister. It would be courteous to drop into the sickroom and offer a belated welcome to his lady guest. Then again, his interest in her might well be misinterpreted, so he should ask Frisby to make the introduction himself. Pleased with that as a neat solution to two issues, he headed for the drawing room to find out what the noise was about.

  Sheridan was on the settee, Harry next to him, legs out and head thrown back, laughing like a drain. Corvin and John were both leaning on the back of the settee. Sheridan held a book, which he was pulling out of Corvin’s reach. “Get off, I’m reading it. Phil! Oh, listen, listen!”

  “What on earth has caused this riot?” Philip demanded.

  Sheridan flipped through the book. “Just a moment... Here we are.” He cleared his throat and began to read aloud. “‘Sir Peter Falconwood was a fair man to look upon, yet thus we see how fairness may be outward only, for his character was as vile as his features were pleasing, and his flaxen hair and blue eyes hid a cruel, cold heart. Though handsome, Sir Peter was no rival to his bosom friend Lord Darkdown in his pursuit of the gentler sex—they might consider themselves blessed by his abstinence! Instead he devoted his energies to strange sciences, cultivating unknown crops on the advice of philosophers rather than that of honest countrymen steeped in English soil’—”

  “Excuse me, what?” Philip demanded. “What was this fellow’s name again?”

  “Sir Peter Falconwood,” John said. “He’s not the main villain though. That’s Lord Darkdown, his best friend, a disgraceful rake, and, wait for it, red-haired.”

  Corvin scowled dramatically. “This is a damned libel. My hair is russet. At most.”

  “Oh my God,” Philip said. “What is this book? Let me see it.”

  “Mine,” Sheridan said, snatching it away. “Well, Miss Frisby’s, but she lent it to me. Buy your own.”

  “I’m going to buy hundreds.” Corvin was bright with glee. “The Secret of Darkdown. I adore everything about it.”

  “I hope you know you’re all going to die,” John said. “Poisoned by mistake, or stabbed by a ghostly nun, or falling off a cliff into hell.”

  “Well, so are you, if that’s who the swarthy henchman is,” Sheridan pointed out.

  “The— You’re sodding joking.”

  “Sorry,” Sheridan said, unapologetically. “You’re six feet tall and devoted to Lord Darkdown.”

  John gave a hiss of exasperation. Corvin poked him in the shoulder and said, “Henchman.”

  “I’m not your bloody henchman.”

  “You are now.”

  John got an arm round his neck. Sheridan and Harry ducked out of the way of the brawl. Philip demanded, “Who the devil wrote it?”

  “It just says By A Lady.”

  “I’ve a pal who can probably find out if you want,” John offered, slightly breathlessly, since he’d more or less got Corvin’s face into the back of the couch.

  “Let me go, you oaf. Ouch. If it’s a success I expect we can wait for the rumours,” Corvin said, straightening and rubbing his neck. “Nobody ever keeps these things quiet for long. God, I hope it’s a success. Let’s make it one.”

  Philip rolled his eyes. “You’ve been waiting your whole life for someone to write a Gothic novel about you, haven’t you?”

  “It’s a small tribute to my genius,” Corvin said modestly. “But Sir Peter the strange scientist is good too. He probably intends complicated villainies which I trust and pray will involve root vegetables. Can I have it when you’ve finished, Sherry?”

  “Not a chance,” John said. “I asked first.”

  “I’ll send for more copies,” Philip put in. “One each. Go on, read me the bit about Corvin.”

  PHILIP PINNED FRISBY down after luncheon, as the man came into the hall. He’d had a feeling that Frisby had been lying low, and the man’s blush suggested he was right. “Good afternoon,” he said breezily. “How is Miss Frisby today?”

  “Uh, better, thank you. She had a bowl of beef broth this morning, which Dr. Martelo says will be restorative. Your cook is wonderful.”

  “Not mine; Corvin supplies the household.”

  “Oh. Of course,” Frisby mumbled.

  “Excellent news, though. I rather wondered—if you feel it appropriate—if you would care to introduce me to the lady. When she is well enough to receive visitors, naturally.”

  “Oh. Yes. Yes, I am sure she will want to thank you.”

  “Please tell her not to,” Philip said. “My contribution is simply that I own the property, which is accidental anyway, so hardly praiseworthy. Have you been for a walk?”

  “Dr. Martelo ordered me out, yes. He’s very keen on fresh air.”

  “Oh, I know, it’s so tiresome. I wish I had done the same, since I shall be obliged to spend the latter part of the afternoon sitting perfectly still.”

  “Why will you need to sit perfectly still?” Frisby asked.

  “For my portrait. John is working on a commission for Corvin. Do you know that he is an artist?”

  “Mr. Raven? I had no idea.”

  “He does engravings mostly, satirical ones. Highly satirical. Usually about two inches to the left of a prosecution, in fact, which is one reason we’re here now and he has leisure to work in oils. The word horsewhip came up in conversation with one of his recent victims in London, and discretion is the better part of valour in these cases.”

  “Oh!” Philip had meant only to entertain, or possibly shock, but Frisby seemed to have found something to chew on. “Oh. So...”

  “So?” Philip prompted.

  “Well, that is, many people would take great offence at seeing themselves depicted satirically or—or unfairly,” Frisby said in something of a rush. “You don’t mind that Mr. Raven does it?”

  “He picks deserving targets. Then again, ‘use every man after his deserts and who should ’scape whipping’? I am of the opinion that one must be the sole judge of one’s own value. There is no point listening to the opinions of others: the world always has its thumb on the scales.”

  Frisby’s mouth rounded. It really was a very expressive mouth. “Can you do that? Ignore people?”

  “Given practice, it becomes second nature.”

  Frisby gave an abrupt little gasp, as though he’d intended to say something and stopped himself. He shook his head instead. “Perhaps. If you can afford to ignore them, if you don’t need them, or you have enough friends to be shocking with. If you didn’t grow up with people always talking about—about you, or your famil
y—”

  “But I did,” Philip pointed out. “And ‘talking about’ understates the matter considerably, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

  “You mean your brother? Yes, I suppose that must have been a great scandal for you too.”

  “I don’t mean my brother. You are aware of my family situation, yes?” Frisby shook his head. “Good Lord. I would have assumed it was known to every man, woman, and dog in the locality.” He examined Frisby’s face. “Oh dear.”

  “What?”

  “You’re visibly teetering between the urgent need to ask and the awareness of how very rude it might be. Curiosity at war with courtesy. It’s like watching a morality play on your face.”

  The colour washed into Frisby’s cheeks. “I beg your pardon,” he said stiffly. “I had no intention of prying.”

  “Good God, man, unbutton yourself.”

  Philip hadn’t actually meant it as a double entendre, let alone a command, but there was no question of how Frisby heard the words. He went from pink to scarlet in a second, eyes widening visibly.

  “Which is to say, please don’t feel constrained by civility,” Philip went on as calmly as though the man hadn’t reacted at all, because he had a sudden vision of Frisby running out of the house screaming for help. “You must have gathered the nature of our society by now.” Christ, he was making it worse. “The pursuit of knowledge, I mean. We like to discuss things as we please and we tend to speak frankly. If I wanted to keep my family scandal a dark secret I shouldn’t have raised the subject. I would have to burn quite a few portraits to achieve that, though.”

  Frisby blinked, though at least his colour was returning to normal. “I don’t at all know what you mean by that. But if you’d like to explain then yes, I am curious.”

  “I wouldn’t precisely say ‘like to’ but it really seems only fair,” Philip said. “Have you seen the family gallery?”

  Frisby shook his head. Philip gestured him upstairs, along to the corridor where the pictures hung, just near the pleasant little parlour where he and Corvin had enjoyed each other yesterday. Frisby lagged noticeably behind, steps slowing as though expecting attack, for reasons Philip couldn’t guess at and decided to ignore.

  “Here,” he said, indicating a painting. “Sir George Rookwood, who held the title before James.”

  Frisby frowned. “You mean, your father?”

  “Well, no, I don’t. That’s rather the point.”

  Frisby looked at him, and then at the dark-haired, red-faced, stocky man with the jutting chin, and up the line of portraits at two more dark-haired, red-faced, stocky men with jutting chins. “Uh. Do you take after your mother?” he tried, a desperate last stab at decency.

  “No. I take after my father.”

  “Oh.”

  “His name is Sir Donald Hamlyn,” Philip said. “I’m his living spit. My mother’s connection with him was a matter of notoriety, but the birth of a child quite so marked with his looks—”

  “Oh.”

  “My supposed father had never troubled to keep his own vows; nevertheless he did not appreciate the cuckoo in his nest. Nor did my mother, actually. After some years of very public estrangement they reconciled, and I was left as an unwanted reminder of her error. I lived in the Corvin household from the age of ten, which was best for all concerned, since the Rookwoods are cousins of the family.”

  “So you and Lord Corvin are related?” Frisby asked, and then, “No.”

  “No indeed.”

  “But you still inherited?”

  Philip shrugged. “I was born to the wife of Sir George Rookwood. In law I’m his son. I dare say he might have attempted to disinherit me if he’d dreamed James would die without issue, but he was a stupid and unimaginative man. And James was evidently not thinking about posterity, given his passion for a woman he couldn’t marry. So the Rookwood estate is mine, greatly to the distress of my—or rather James’s—cousin, who is next in line. He attempted to get up a lawsuit, with no success. He can have the place when I’m dead.”

  “I’m so sorry, Sir Philip,” Frisby said. “It must have been dreadful for you, all of it.”

  Philip was sure he hadn’t sounded distressed enough to evoke such a response. His illegitimacy had been a lifelong insult, but he had long ago vowed not to feel it as an injury. His parents’ failings were not his fault. That was not the popular view, and people mostly reacted with embarrassment when he mentioned it, or shock. Frisby’s quick, open sympathy was unexpected.

  “I dare say that I might have had some of the same experiences,” Frisby went on. “People talking about one’s mother, and making remarks. It’s vile.”

  “It is rather,” Philip said. “And then I decided I didn’t give a damn for such people or their opinions. I had no hand in my own conception, any more than you played a part in your mother’s decision to follow her heart. I am, myself, of the opinion that if anyone deserves condemnation for the acts of Mrs. Frisby and Lady Rookwood other than the ladies themselves, it would be—”

  “This Sir Donald and your brother,” Frisby completed. “Yes.”

  “Actually, I was going to say the ladies’ husbands. Perhaps your father was blameless, though my one encounter with him was not at all pleasant, but I knew my mother’s husband well enough, and I wouldn’t have wanted to be yoked to him.”

  “You said they reconciled?”

  “My mother became an adherent of an extremely religious sect,” Philip said. “She felt it her duty to return to the marital home, where she bemoaned her sin on a frequent basis. The Bible does tell us that the sins of the parent are to be visited upon the child.”

  “The New Testament tells us that children belong to the kingdom of God,” Frisby said. “And that the erring woman was forgiven, and that only he who is without sin is entitled to cast a stone at her. I’d rather hold to that.”

  He spoke with a slight hesitation, but he said it all the same, and Philip felt a mild satisfaction at having elicited a bit of spine from the man. Standing for his beliefs suited him a great deal better than the scurrying.

  “You’re quite right.” He enjoyed the look of confusion that brought. “That is how it should be. I don’t believe in divinity, but I hope I can appreciate a solid moral precept when I hear one. If only more Christians were guided by Christ.”

  “Well. That’s true.” Frisby’s shoulders dropped a little.

  “I don’t mean to compare our situations,” Philip added. “I know what it is to have one’s family talked about, especially when one’s mother commits the cardinal sin of behaving in a way that is only acceptable for fathers, but it must have been far worse for you.”

  “No: it was worse for Amanda,” Frisby said. “Not for me. I had boys calling my mother names and—well, that sort of thing. But Amanda... She went to London for a Season and people assumed—they thought, because of what our mother had done more than a decade before—”

  “Ah.”

  “How dare they,” Frisby said low. “How dare people make assumptions about her character because of what someone else did when she was five? But they did. And I don’t care what other people say is all very well when you’re a man with an independent income, but it isn’t all very well for women, because what other people say is all that counts. If enough people repeat that Eleanor Frisby’s daughter is just like her mother, it becomes true. And you may think Dr. Bewdley a fussy old fool, but I know why he was concerned, because he saw it all happen before. He knows perfectly well that if there’s the slightest breath of scandal, it will taint Amanda forever because nobody will ever give her a fair hearing thanks to Mother, and it’s not right!”

  He was standing tall now, chin up and back straight, self-consciousness burned away by anger. Frisby was roused for his sister, and those green-flecked eyes were wildly expressive when they were lit with passion. This was what he ought to look like, Philip thought: not shuffling back into the shadows because to be noticed was a misery. He ought to be noticed, and Ph
ilip was bloody well noticing him now.

  Frisby shifted slightly, hackles settling. “I beg your pardon. But that’s what I think.”

  “Will you do me a service, Frisby?”

  “Of course,” he said at once, and then his expressive eyes widened as though he was wondering what he’d let himself in for.

  Philip tried not to smile. “Will you please never again beg pardon of me for having an opinion? Under my roof, you are welcome to think and speak as you please, and I hope you will. It suits you.”

  And there it went again, the betraying flush of colour in his cheeks. Philip had once heard a naturalist lecture at the Royal Society on animals that changed colour as a means of communication to their kind; Frisby was evidently of that species. He looked pink and startled and pleased, and Philip wondered—

  “Oi! Phil! Get your baronet arse along here!”

  Frisby blinked at John’s bellow from a nearby room. Philip sighed. “The artistic temperament. Apparently my presence is required for the sitting. Would you care to watch?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The painting was taking place in the upstairs parlour. That upstairs parlour.

  Guy had frozen in place when Rookwood had led the way, then followed with numb trepidation fearing heaven knew what; he couldn’t have said himself what could happen, or why he followed if he thought it might. But there was no orgy of any kind in here. The criminal couch was pushed to one side; there was an easel by the window bearing a large canvas, and sketches pinned up to the walls. Guy didn’t know if they had been there before. He hadn’t looked.

  John Raven was sitting at the easel. He lifted a hand in greeting to Guy, then motioned Rookwood over to take his place on a chair. Guy came cautiously up to see.

  The picture was half done, with the background sketched in light brush strokes, the figures most detailed in face and hands. At the centre of the composition was Raven himself, seated at an easel, in the middle of painting a picture. He was looking round at the viewer with a decidedly sardonic expression. Lord Corvin was right behind him, leaning on the back of his chair, pointing at something on the canvas with that terrible, delightful smile. Rookwood was shown seated on a chair next to Raven, also looking at the canvas. He leaned forward, elbows on thighs, wearing the look of intense, absorbed interest that had twisted in Guy’s chest the previous night. Perhaps that expression spoke to Raven as strongly as it had to Guy.