Master Of Paradise Page 2

  Lord Harry looked his son straight in the eyes. "The past cannot be altered, or I would alter it, so help me God! At the time I chose not to marry a girl beneath my station and chose instead a lady of high birth who fitted perfectly into the social mileau of Peacock Hall. So you see Nicholas, Philip is my legal heir; he'll get the title, the Hall, everything. No, not everything," he amended. "I shall see that you get plenty of money and property of your own, but you will never be the Lord of Peacock Hall." He shook his head regretfully. "The Fates have paid me back a thousandfold, giving me Philip for heir, rather than the son I love and cherish."

  Nicholas said what he always said at mention of his brother, "Philip isn't so bad." Then he asked, "My mother-- she is dead, isn't she? You didn't lie to me about that?"

  "I'm sorry to say that she is in truth dead. God rest her soul."

  "Well," Nick shrugged, "what's the difference if my brother has title to the place? It will still need a deal of managing."

  His father looked at him proudly, "I'll say this for ye, bastard or no, you're a real man." He assured him, "I'll set up a trust fund for when you reach your majority. I'll put in enough so it will accumulate to about a hundred thousand pounds by the time you reach twenty-five." Harry winked at his son. "I'll put a safeguard on what I leave you so you can't touch a penny before you're twenty-five. A young rogue would have it all spent on horses and wenches!"

  Nick grinned. "Never had to pay for it yet, Father.

  "By God, I'd hope not. A lusty young stud like you? Why stap me, half the women in London would pay you. You're like a young Apollo."

  Nicholas dragged his thoughts back from the past to hear the cool, remote tones of Lady Pamela say reprovingly, "Harry, you may inform Lady Sackville that I am quite put off at her not giving a formal dinner for the prince."

  "Ah, can't do that m'dear. The visit is supposed to be a secret. The poor chap is so fawned upon by hostesses, the fellow never gets an informal moment to relax." Harry rubbed his finger alongside his nose. "So remember, mum's the word."

  Philip, who had been listlessly toying with his food, cast Nicholas an imploring glance and Nick immediately nodded his understand. As soon as he got his father alone, he would plead Philip's case for a thoroughbred and some lessons in gun handling. He knew he could sway his father, and hoped that Harry would be able to overcome Lady Pamela's gentle sensitivities.

  Before they arose from the dining table, she inquired politely, "Shall I order the carriage, Harry?"

  "Carriage?" he demanded incredulously. "We shall ride as usual." He gave no thought to Nick's evening clothes, and indeed would similarly adorn his person before going to Knole to spend the evening with the prince. Harry thought carriages were for women and old men, and never tired of saying so.

  Lady Pamela reproved gently, "If you are riding Harry, try not to overindulge."

  Harry's face grew redder than its usual wont and the loudness of his voice increased apace. "I should hope I can still hold my liquor, though I fail to see what possible difference it makes to you when you insist we keep separate bedrooms," he said bluntly.

  Not by the flicker of an eyelash did she react to his coarse remark in front of his sons, and Nicholas again marveled at her unruffled poise.

  On the way to the stables, Harry chuckled richly, "Can't wait to see their faces when you clean them out. 'Tis no wonder they dub you 'Old Nick', ye've the Devil's own luck!"

  "Skill Father, skill!" Nick grinned and changed the subject. "By the way, it's high time Philip graduated from ponies. The way he's mounted is a disgrace. He needs a thoroughbred, and it's no good giving me the argument he can't handle one, because he never will until he gets the chance. He's dying to learn how to shoot. If you are too busy, I don't mind giving him lessons."

  "Hah! There'd be hell to pay. The woman shields him behind her skirts to the point of indecency."

  The two large bays cantered along close enough for a conversation between father and son with only a slight raising of their voices.

  "Father, he's your son. You've only to say the word and your word is law. You speak as if Lady Pamela was a shrew, when in point of fact she gently acquiesces to all your wishes."

  "Not all," he said drily, and Nicholas grinned into the darkness as his graphic imagination pictured how earthy some of his father's wishes would be.

  Knole, which had been built in the fifteenth century, was one of the largest private houses in England. Their arrival coincided with that of their neighbors from the other great houses in the district, who'd come for the high-stakes game.

  Lord Bora and his son Perry, followed upon the heels of Viscount De L'Isle from Penshurst, Sir Oliver Dyke from Edenbridge Castle, and Francis Child, the world-famous banker.

  As the large group of men entered the splendid Jacobean interior of Knole, there was general confusion in the entrance hall and cloakroom. A sweet little Irish maid was in attendance inside the cloakroom to receive the guests evening capes, which were being removed by the head footman. Nicholas took advantage of the momentary confusion to slip into the cloakroom and steal a quick kiss.

  The mere sight of Nick Peacock's darkly handsome face took her breath away, but when his powerful arms stole about her to lift her from her feet, she was covered with blushes and giggles. She uttered the exact opposite of what she really wanted. "Stop it, sor! Master Nick, you'll get me the sack!" By the saints, if she ever got the chance to be with him, she'd let him have his way, whatever he asked. What memories he'd provide for the bleak nights of her old age!

  Nick winked at her as his father entered. He knew she would have been mad as fire if he'd ignored her. His grin widened to show the flash of white teeth as he heard her gasp behind him. His father had probably just felt her bottom, or worse.

  The gaming room was actually the library. A magnificent collection of books lined the paneled walls in two tiers; the upper tier housed in a gallery with ornate railings. Very few of the books were ever actually read. The maids thought books were for dusting.

  The green baize gaming table received much more use by far than the reading tables. A welcoming fire blazed on the hearth and was flanked by sideboards well stocked with bottles, snifters and decanters of the best wine and liquors from half-a-dozen countries.

  Ten players sat around the card table, the six packs of cards were shuffled, cut and placed in the 'shoe' or dealing box that released one card at a time, face down. Their host, old Hugh Sackville, opted to play croupier, which meant he would not participate in the play, except to assist the players in making and settling their bets, and to quote to them the mathematical advisability of alternate plays.

  The right to deal first was put up to auction, and the banker Francis Child bid highest. He announced the amount of his bank at stake. Each player made a small wager, then Nicholas called "Banco" so negligently, he almost sounded bored. Banco meant he had accepted the dealer's entire bank as a wager.

  Nicholas chose not to bet on the right or left hand, but instead bet a cheval, which meant that he won only if the dealer beat both hands against him. When the coup was in Nick's favor, Lord Harry couldn't keep the grin of delight from his face. Now it was Nick's bank and he dealt out the three hands, to the right, left and to himself with an indifference that belied his skill at the game. His bank grew steadily and Prince Edward grew red in the face because he lost. This had never, ever happened to him before as everyone in deference to his Royalty always let him win. Tonight this did not happen; he had reckoned without Nicholas Peacock.

  The stakes were high and the drinking deep. The room was filled with the blue poll of cigar smoke. A player was allowed to retain the deal until the total amount of his original bank had been lost, but on the contrary, Nicholas had doubled and then tripled his bank, and since there was no indication of his losing his bank after two hour's play, he voluntarily retired.

  Since the new dealer on his left was Droopy George, the prince's attendant, Nicholas pocketed his money and thought he'd stret
ch his legs and take a breath of air. He slipped up the staircase to the second floor bathroom to wash his hands and as he walked along the hall to go back downstairs, a woman's voice came to him from an open bedroom. Lady Elinor was a regal-looking woman, much younger than Lord Sackville.

  As he looked in, he saw her sitting on the edge of the bed, her skirts drawn to one side to display a pair of trim ankles and calves.

  "Hello Nicky. I hope you let his highness win a few hands," she said huskily.

  He swept her with his cool, aqua gaze. "Not a bit of it. I'd consider it an insult if anyone let me win."

  "Really?" she drawled. "I'd like to play with you sometime." She cast him a sideways glance of invitation.

  He cleared his throat politely, but made no answer to her opening gambit. She arose from the bed and smoothed the heavy satin negligee over her hips, allowing her hands to linger upon her own body. "Hugh goes with the prince to Newmarket for the races, so I shall be alone all next week." She paused expectantly.

  Well, I'll be damned, Nick thought.

  With one finger she touched the starched white shirtfront that covered his hard chest and said huskily, "I shall be very lonely."

  Nicholas drew back a fraction, bowed formally and murmured, "I shall inform Lady Pamela and urge her to visit you, Lady Sackville." As he made his escape he thought, Talk about kiss and tell! It was a month past that he had succumed to a similar invitation from vivacious and irresistible Georgina Devonshire, and since that night he'd received three blatant propositions from married women. Cynically, he was annoyed to think his name was being passed about by the social lionesses who were suffering from night starvation.

  When he returned to the card table, he offered to take on the role of croupier since he was already the richer by almost a thousand guineas, and this would allow him to help and advise his father to make wise bets in his desire to clean out the prince.

  When the game broke up at 2 a.m. Harry's exuberance could not be concealed. The amount of port wine and brandy he had consumed were responsible in part, but in the main it was due to Nick's uncanny luck at Baccarat that had rubbed off on him tonight.

  Lord Bora's son, Perry, beckoned Nicholas into the entrance away from the others. "My pockets are to let Nick, you don't suppose you could let me have a couple of hundred until next month's allowance, do you?"

  Nick grinned and gave his friend what he asked for, although he knew from past experience the loan would never be repaid.

  "Thanks Nick, you're a gentleman, although," he added petulantly, "it doesn't seem quite fair somehow that you always win."

  Nicholas refrained from pointing out that Perry usually gained from these winnings. Instead he looked amused and said, "Perhaps it's because I laugh at Fate and accept whatever she sends my way."

  In the stables, Nicholas knew better than to offer to help his father mount. After three false starts, Harry managed to get his leg over the huge bay and before Knole was barely out of sight, he began to sing at the top of his lungs, and he insisted Nicholas join in with him or be dubbed a bloody sobersides.

  When they came within a mile of home, Harry challenged his son to a race. Nick tried to discourage him, knowing there were two fences and a stone wall to be cleared, no small feat for a man of his age, even when completely sober. It was the wall that undid him.

  Nicholas dismounted in a flash, fearful of what he would find on the far side of the stone wall. Harry wasn't unconscious, but his leg lay at an odd angle to his body and the wind had been completely knocked out of him.

  "I'll ride on and get help. For God's sake Father, stay still. I'm afraid the leg's busted."

  Harry actually chuckled. "The woman always predicted I'd be brought home feet first!"

  Nicholas and a groom carried him home on a door, with a second groom leading the horses. Nick had already dispatched a man for old Dr. Hamilton. Since the night had turned bitter cold, he knew he must get his father out of the biting autumn winds that were swirling the fallen leaves in furious circles.

  Lady Pamela awaited them at the front entrance to Peacock Hall. Nicholas was relieved when he glimpsed her calm, serene face and her unruffled demeanor. She can always be counted on to remain cool and collected, even in an emergency. She held a lamp to light their way upstairs, and Nick did his best to reassure her.

  "He was thrown, I'm afraid, although he wasn't knocked unconscious. I've already sent for the doctor."

  They set the wooden door down on the black and white marble tiles of the entrance Hall.

  "I think we'll do better if I carry him from here," Nick decided swiftly, stooping and lifting the large man as gently as possible. His father's usually florid face had gone white with the pain, and he whispered, "That was my favorite hunter-- he won't have to be put down, will he?"

  Nick shook his head. "He's perfectly all right-- we may have to shoot you though," he joked affectionately.

  Lady Pamela glided into the bedchamber and set the lamp on a bedside table. She smoothly turned back the sheets and stood back for Nicholas to deposit his burden. She efficiently dispatched a servant for shears so that the riding boot could cut from the leg, and brought forward the brandy decanter.

  "I think he's had enough," Nick said, feeling guilty for his father and himself, beneath her cool gaze.

  By the time the old doctor arrived ,Nick had managed to remove the boot and disrobe Harry. He was almost surprised that his father allowed his ministrations, as he'd always sworn he'd never have a valet. A man who couldn't dress and undress himself wasn't worthy to be called a man, he always declared in the same scathing tone he reserved for males who rode in carriages.

  Nicholas helped the doctor straighten and splint the leg, then the doctor gave Lady Pamela some tablets and a bottle, along with careful instructions.

  "I'll be along tomorrow, Lord Peacock. You've got a wonderful nurse here." Dr. Hamilton beckoned Lady Pamela from the room and told her to keep the patient quiet. "There shouldn't be any complications, my lady, but he's going to be off that leg for a long time, and I don't suppose he'll be an easy patient for you, my dear."

  She smiled patiently. "He won't be any bother, doctor. How kind of you to worry about me."

  Nicholas smiled at her. "I'll do my best to keep him amused. I'm sorry this happened." He felt he apologized for his father as well as himself.

  The next day Harry was running a fever, and the day after that he began to cough. On the third day the doctor began treating him for bronchitis and by the fifth, fateful day, he solemnly announced that Lord Peacock had developed pneumonia.

  Nicholas marveled at the devoted figure who quietly attended the sick bed. He thanked God for Lady Pamela; she was a saint.

  An urgency came upon Harry Peacock like he had never known before. He sent to the city for his solicitor. His affairs were not arranged as he wished them to be. He had thought himself immortal, but now he could read the writing on the wall. He knew that Fate was about to catch up with, and overtake him.

  As Nicholas sat watching him reach for one shallow breath after another, he prayed that his father would recover. Lord Harry opened his eyes and struggled to sit up. "I must change everything in my will,"he said in great agitation. "It must be done legally."

  A crease came between Nick's brows. "Father don't upset yourself. Everything will be fine if you'll just rest and get your strength back."

  "Everything won't be fine!" Harry insisted. "You've had the management of this place for three years now and done a damned fine job of it too. Philip won't come into his majority for another nine years yet. The lad's only sixteen and useless to boot," rasped Harry, before lapsing into a fit of coughing.

  Nick's frown deepened, "Easy Father, easy."

  Harry shook his head stubbornly. "I should have made you Philip's legal guardian, not Pamela. What the hell does she know about managing an estate this size? Philip needs firm guidance and a role model to turn him into a man."

  "Philip will do just fine, Father, wh
en the time comes. I warrant you'll still be with us when Philip turns twenty-five. I told you we'd have to shoot you," he said affectionately.

  The older man shook his head and his chest gave off a queer rattle. "Not so lad, don't try to fool the old man, it can't be done."

  Nicholas looked him in the eye and acknowledged, "I've tried often enough, but never succeeded."

  "Through my neglect, you are entitled to nothing. There's only what I put away for you three years ago, and you can't touch that until you're twenty-five. They can take it all away from you."

  Nicholas smiled to calm his father's agitation. "They wouldn't do that, Father."

  The elderly man lay back against his pillows, clammy and white and exhausted. '"Where's that damned solicitor? I can't wait! Fetch Pamela... pen and paper."

  When his wife came in carrying the things he had asked for, Harry gasped, "Where's Chetwynd? Damned fellow always underfoot... until I need him."

  She soothed, "He'll be here. Try to stay calm, dear."

  "The marriage contract provides for you... Philip gets the title, the estate and all the lands, and his son inherits the land and titles after him. I must provide for Nick. Also, Philip would be better off if Nick was legal guardian over his money until Philip is twenty-five." He stopped and fought for breath to continue. "I want it all legal. No loopholes. Nick, you write it out. I'll sign it and Pamela will witness it. Give it to Chetwynd the moment he arrives. Promise me!"

  "I promise, dear. Take your time; try to relax," she soothed.

  Nick dipped the quill in the inkpot, feeling slightly uncomfortable with the task his father urged upon him. His eyebrows rose at the generous amount his father named. "I hereby bequeath to my natural son, Nicholas, one hundred thousand guineas." He fell back and closed his eyes for a minute.

  "Father, this is taking too much out of you, dammit," Nicholas protested.