Page 31 of The Captive
“You should go home too, my dear, though I will allow you to join me as far as England. I get good service when I drag you about with me.”
“Are you going to England to kill him?”
“I told you, I have had enough of violence, and I am not given to dissembling,” Girard said, shoving to his feet and leaving Michael with his three beers. He tossed some coins on the table and draped his greatcoat over his shoulders, because even in summer, Viennese evenings could be chilly, and weapons could benefit from concealment.
“You don’t need violence to kill a man,” Michael said, sitting back, one big hand wrapped around his drink. “As far as the English are concerned, Robert Girard doesn’t even need a reason. He kills and torments for pleasure.”
“None of them died, Michel. You alone can vouch for the fact that none of them died at my hands, though now,” Girard said, settling his hat on his head, “it appears I continue living, without a reason to justify that either.”
He took his leave, lest Michael’s capacity for impromptu sermonizing overtake him, though the fellow had a point: Mercia’s situation required resolution, and to see to that, somebody would have to die. On his good days, Girard rather preferred it not be him, and on his bad days…
On his bad days, he could think of no place he’d rather die than merry olde England.
***
“Come.” Lady Greendale took Christian by his ungloved left hand and pulled him toward Severn’s main staircase. “You’ll hide in the library, or with your stewards or your correspondence, and that child has waited weeks and weeks to see her long-lost papa. She needs to see you’re alive with her own eyes.”
“I beg your pardon.” Christian planted his feet, stopping her forward progress—barely. The countess was surprisingly strong for her size, and apparently suffering no ill effects from having endured his kisses the previous night. “I would prefer not to be dragged up to the nursery like some errant scholar come downstairs to peek at Mama in her evening finery.”
She smiled at him, appearing perfectly charmed by his mulishness.
“I’ll bet you did exactly that, and your papa pretended not to see you until your mama bid you come give her a kiss. You were likely adorable, too. How we do change.”
He had been adorable. His mama had told him so. With some effort and no little consternation Christian identified the temptation to…smile.
“Perhaps we might compromise?” He winged his left arm at her, his momentary good humor fading. This confrontation with the child really would be better put off to when he wasn’t sporting the dust of the road, bone-weary from hours in the saddle, and completely without a plan as to how the reunion should be handled.
But thank God, the countess was filling her sails.
“…She writes to me regularly, and I to her, as I have a paucity of cousins worth the trouble, much less with legible penmanship. Hers is exquisite, though, even for a child.”
“As mine is…was.”
“Really? Well, we know she didn’t get her penmanship from Helene. Why you never hired the woman an amanuensis is beyond me, Mercia. In any case, Lucy is very much looking forward to seeing her papa, and worried she won’t recognize you. You must be sure not to look so forbidding to her. You can be the duke later, when her beaus and swains come calling. For now, enjoy being the papa.”
She marched up the steps, a ship’s captain determined to dock her vessel safely at the pier of her choosing.
“Excuse me, Countess, but refresh my memory: How many children have you had the pleasure of raising?” Perhaps if he scrapped with her a bit she’d be less nervous, and thenhemight be less nervous too.
She paused at the second landing, forcing him to do likewise.
“Low shot, Your Grace. Unsporting of you, though I raised my younger brothers because my mama was in a perpetual decline, which ought to be impossible. I will forgive you though, because you are anxious. A papa doesn’t rise from the dead every day.”
She’d taunted, dragged, and talked him to the nursery door.
“Hello, Nanny, Harris.” Her ladyship nodded to the nurse and the governess. “Nothing would do but His Grace must come directly to the nursery to see Lady Lucy. His Grace has reminded me her ladyship prefers to be called Lucy. She’s in the schoolroom?”
“At her letters,” Harris said, bobbing a deep curtsy. “Your Grace.”
He nodded in response, not recalling this Harris person in the least. Nanny was another matter, though, for she’d been Helene’s nanny too.
“Nanny, I hope we find you well?”
“Better now, Your Grace. Better now that my lamb’s papa is with us again.”
“Where I much prefer to be,” he said, wanting to run howling for the stables.
“Well, let’s get on with it,” the countess said, taking his hand again.
