Page 28 of A Stroke of Luck
Surprise was putting it mildly, thought the duke. Several glasses of his uncle’s finest French brandy, five cantos of Dante’sInfernoand a half dozen of Mozart’s piano etudes had done little to soothe his unsettled frame of mind. And sleep had been short and fitful, even though he had not sought his bed until well after midnight.
Why that should be, he could not fathom. The headstrong hellion had been unjust in her accusations. His presence at Highwood Manor had an innocent explanation, if she had bothered to ask. Instead, she had assumed the worst of him …
He shifted in his chair, drawing a sharp rebuke from Stump. “Stop squirmin’ like a stuck pig, else you’ll end up with your windpipe sliced clean through.”
“It might put me out of my misery,” grumbled the duke. Fending off any further foray of the honed steel, Prestwick rose and toweled off his chin. “The thought of having to confront a feisty female before I have a chance to enjoy my pot of coffee and one of Monsieur Henri’s special omelettes is enough to cause an unsettling ache in my stomach.” The sight of the slurry of suds and shaved whiskers upon his brand new hunter-green superfine also made him slightly sick, but he swallowed any comment on the ruined garment. “On second thought, I think I shall wear the navy merino instead. It is a better complement to the biscuit shade of my breeches.”
“Biscuit? Now you’ve started my own breadbox growlin’ for breakfast.” Stump pursed his lips. “Biscuit, fawn, buff—they all look like a damn light brown to me. But I know better than to argue with your refined taste in color.” He shot out his one hand and deftly removed the requested coat from its place. “The navy it is.”
Knotting a last, intricate loop in the length of starched linen, the duke finished tying his cravat and headed for the door, though in truth, he had little appetite for what undoubtedly was going to be a heated confrontation. After a few steps, however, his teeth set. He could weather the storm as long as the young lady confined herself to hurling insults at his head. But if she dared cast aspersions on the flaky croissants he had ordered his French chef to prepare, the ensuing thunder and lightning would be more than a mere tempest in a teapot!
His stomach growled in loud agreement.
Knowing his aunt’s utter lack of taste in cuisine as well as clothing, he had made sure that the temperamental tyrant of his London kitchen had been asked to make the trip north. The sea voyage had nearly prompted a mutiny. Any further assault on the fellow’s finely honed sensibilities would likely result in a scorching display of Gallic fury—not to speak of what would happen to the roast beef.
Taking the stairs two at a time, Prestwick was halfway down the hallway leading to the breakfast room when a loud crash, followed by several lesser thumps, sounded from behind the door of the library.
What new squall was brewing? he wondered. Biting back an irritated oath, he decided he had best check that no real disaster was imminent before sitting down to his cup of Jamaican coffee. His steps skidded to a halt and his hand grasped the brass latch.
Whatever he had expected to find behind the paneled oak, it was not the figure of Perry perched precariously at the very top of the shelves, one hand clinging to the rung of the varnished ladder, while the other clutched the remains of a tooled leather binding.
“I—I didn’t mean to ruin it,” stammered the lad, his face ashen with remorse. “It was heavier than I thought.” His gaze dropped to survey the jumble of torn paper that had fallen onto the parquet floor, along with a handful of smaller volumes that had managed to remain in one piece. “You may put me to work to repay the cost of it.”
Prestwick quietly closed the door behind him and went to retrieve the split signatures of foolscap that had ripped free of the covers. “The Frogs, by Aristophanes,” he read from the title page.
“The maid left the door open after dusting,” croaked Perry. “I had never seen so many beautiful books in one place before, soI thought there was no harm in having a closer look.“ His voice became very small. “Then I spotted that one on the top shelf. I have always wanted to read it, and …”
His words trailed off in a ragged hiccup of remorse. “You may go ahead and birch me, sir. I know I richly deserve it for wrecking such an expensive book.”
“Hmmm.” The duke flipped through the pages, then let them fall shut. “Actually it is not worth the leather it was bound in. It is a remarkably shoddy piece of scholarship, with all sorts of grammatical errors. I daresay the collection is much improved without it.”
With a casual shrug, he tossed it over his shoulder.
Perry’s mouth formed a silent ‘O’ as his eyes grew as large as gold buttons on Harold’s swallowtail coat.
“Now, Aueltman’s edition—the one there, to the right of your hand—is the definitive text of the playwright’s works.Thatis the one you should be looking at.” Stepping onto the lower rungs of the ladder, he plucked both the book and the boy from their places and carried them over to the immense desk by the mullioned windows.
Turning the pages to the first act, he ran a finger under the opening lines. “Did you know that Aristophanes is considered the father of comedy?”
Perry, still mute with surprise, could only nod.
“He was a master of comic satire and biting humor, not only inThe Frogsbut in such other works asThe Birds,The CloudsandLysistrada.” Satisfied that he had appeared suitably knowledgeable, Prestwick leaned back with a small smile.
“He was also a sharp critic of Athenian politics and culture after the start of the Peloponnesian War in 431 B.C., and the death of Pericles in 429 B.C.” The lad had recovered enough of his voice to add a footnote to the duke’s explanation.
Prestwick’s expression turned to one of wry bemusement. “Er, yes. That’s exactly right.”
Perry’s eyes were now glued to the printed page, saying each word under his breath as he labored over the lines the duke had indicated.
“It is pronounced more like this,” corrected Prestwick, taking care to go over the syllable in question several times.
“Ah.” Perry repeated it perfectly, a boyish grin sneaking across his countenance. “Thank you, sir. One can never tell when knowing how to say “frog” in Greek will come in handy.”
The duke chuckled in answer, then pulled a face. “Speaking of frogs, I am afraid I must hurry to breakfast. My French chef may threaten to burn the kitchen along with the toast and Yorkshire gammon if I allow hisoeufs aux champignonto get cold.”
Shooting one last, wistful look at the page, Perry reluctantly closed the book and made to slide off the chair.
“That does not mean you cannot stay and look over the book for as long as you like.”
