“This is yer sittin’ room, m’lady.”
She looked around and flinched visibly. “It is pink, Crouch?”
The pirate surveyed the room, hand and hook resting on his hips.
“Aye, that it is. A right nasty shade of pink too, I’m thinkin’.”
“I am agreeing with you, Crouch.”
“ ’Twas ’er ladyship’s favorite color. ’Er late ladyship, that is, yer being ’er new ladyship an’ all.”
Gillian took a deep breath and smiled at her stepson, who was staring with openmouthed fascination at a rather indecent painting involving an enthusiastic group of satyrs, nymphs, and cherubs. She took him firmly by the shoulders, then pushed him out the door after the butler, ordering him to wash up from the dusty ride before going downstairs.
Twenty minutes later the silent boy stepped into a small room lit by several stands of candles and a cheerful fire.
“Hungry, Nick?” Gillian waved a hunk of yellow cheese at him and pointed toward the end of the mahogany desk, where a light repast had been placed. She sat behind the desk, sorting through the post that had arrived that day, looking for a clue as to Noble’s whereabouts. “I’m hoping your father returns for dinner, but until then, I thought we might refresh ourselves. What have we here?” From beneath a stack of account papers peeped an edge of expensive-looking lilac paper. Gillian pulled it out and examined it, wrinkling her nose as she did so.
“Hmmm. Perfumed.”
Nick looked up from his bread and cheese at the disgusted tone in her voice. Gillian examined the direction on the front of the letter closely, sighed, then waved the letter back and forth gently as she nibbled on her lower lip.
“It is unethical to read a letter that is not addressed to you, Nick.”
Nick shrugged noncommittally and stuffed a large piece of cheese in his mouth.
“Close your mouth when you chew, dear, you’re spewing bits of cheese on your father’s desk. No, it is unethical and quite probably illegal as well.”
Gillian considered the two purple seals on the back of the letter. They had clearly been slit, indicating that Noble had read this letter. She glanced over at her stepson.
“You would not want your private correspondence being available to just anyone, now would you?”
Nick thought for a moment, then shook his head and washed down a big hunk of bread with a swallow of milky tea. Gillian watched the fascinating process, momentarily reminded of a large South American snake she had seen the year before.
Shaking away the image, she tapped her finger on the letter. “However, there are times when one has to breach protocol, such as in the case of an emergency. For instance, what if someone near to you — oh, let us just pull a person out of thin air and use your father for this example — if you knew that your father was in peril, and that you could save him if only you knew his whereabouts, and that those whereabouts might be ascertained if you were to read a letter addressed to him in a very definitely feminine hand on paper so scented with lilac that it could drop a horse at thirty paces; why then, you would be fully justified in reading that letter, wouldn’t you? Even though you would not consider such an action under normal circumstances?”
Nick tipped his head to one side as he watched his stepmother, then nodded again. He wondered why she didn’t just read the letter, instead of making a fuss about it. He shrugged again and popped a whole apple tart into his mouth.
“I am so glad you agree with me, Nick. We shall get along just famously, I can tell. Now, since we are in agreement about when it is appropriate to throw the niceties out the window, I believe I can say without hesitation that the situation of your missing father clearly falls under the heading of an emergency.”
Nick looked up from the apple tart crumbs and raised an eyebrow in perfect imitation of Noble at his most quizzical.
“You do not agree that the letter should be read?”
Nick blinked at her.
“Or you do not agree that your father is missing?”
He nodded.
Gillian waved the letter gently back and forth as she thought about this. She considered explaining to him just what a fragile state of emotion his father was in. She contemplated telling him her plan to breach the walls Noble had built around his heart. She thought long about informing him that there were things that she, as an adult, saw that he did not.
She considered whether or not she wanted to make up any more excuses, decided against it, and read the letter.
Two minutes later, Nick, his hunger abated, watched Gillian as she paced the room and muttered expletives under her breath. He had been prepared to dislike the woman his father brought home as his new mother, but something about Gillian had put him immediately at ease. She was unlike anyone he had ever met. He didn’t understand why she had immediately accepted him as her son, for despite his father’s attempt at shielding him from the worst, he understood the harsh words the villagers used toward him. He knew that for some reason he was defective and wasn’t the heir his father needed, but he didn’t dwell on that shortcoming. It brought back too many painful memories of another mother and a terrifying night that had seemed to last for years.
He watched Gillian now as she paced and mumbled to herself. Was she talking about his father? He assumed she was, but her attitude didn’t make sense. One minute she was saying things about a poor, deluded man who had suffered so much he didn’t know how to love, the next minute she was threatening to emasculate him if he thought to play her false, especially after the most satisfying wedding night in the history of the world. Nick wondered just what exactly emasculating consisted of, decided by the expression on Gillian’s face it wasn’t pleasant, and settled back in the chair, content to watch her.
She seemed to struggle with a thought for a moment as she stood before the window gazing out at the darkening sky, tapping a finger on her lips; then she nodded twice and turned to face him.
“I have decided to save your father.”
He looked at her in surprise. Was his father in need of saving? Nick couldn’t imagine anyone as big and powerful as his father in need of help. He frowned. Despite her height, Gillian was thin and didn’t have much bulk. He doubted she would be of much assistance.
“He needs saving, Nicholas, and I am just the woman to save him. He’s too pigheaded to admit that, and ’tis the truth part of that fault could lie with the fact that we are not very well acquainted yet. Still, he is my husband now, and I owe him my help as well as my loyalty. You can stop shaking your head at me, Nick. I have made up my mind. Do you wish to come with me?”
His father’s obsession with order and control had seen to it that life at Nethercote, while pleasant, was dull and unexciting. Gillian’s arrival had brought a swirl of adventure that struck a deep chord in the boy. Nick yearned to ask his stepmother where they were going, but the visions of that black night long ago were too strong. He nodded instead.
She nodded back, and then started out the door, calling over her shoulder, “I will be back shortly. We don’t want any gossip, so I must change my clothing. The boots, I think, will suit. He is about my size.”
Some forty minutes later, Gillian scratched at the rough neckcloth as she sat back against the uncomfortable squabs of the hired hack and peered out the grimy, flyspecked window at the darkened house beyond. It was a modest-sized house of red brick, situated in a conservative, pleasant neighborhood. She frowned at the staid front of the house and nibbled on her lip. This wasn’t the sort of domicile in which she had expected Noble to keep his mistress. She took another look down the gently curved street. God’s knuckles, it was all wrong — this was not the sort of neighborhood she expected would tolerate a member of the demimonde. Did all mistresses live so well?