informant extraordinaire to the King.”
Accustomed to guarding his expression, Roger guarded it now.
With a throaty laugh, Selwyn poured another drink. “I take it she is correct?”
Roger swirled his rum, studying the way the movement of the liquid seemed to suck light into the glass. “And if I am devious, sir, but have no interest in disgracing your daughter?”
The fullness of Roger Ramsay’s presence set Dulcie’s heart racing in the moment before he pulled the doorbell. She knew it was he. Martha’s voice rose in the stairwell, along with the masculine rumble of their visitor’s. Like bubbles in a fine champagne, the voices tickled her nose, rose giddy within the confines of her chest, a nameless, floating sense of expectancy. Roger Ramsay, the King’s Gargoyle, needed her. He went to the trouble of seeing her father, as she had insisted.
The house swelled at the seams in making him welcome. A servant tramped past her doorway with unusual haste. Footsteps skittered on the stairs. She watched shadows move. The dank, wet chill of the Thames crept up to the landing. Her eyes closed as she savored a faint whiff of sandalwood and wrapped herself in light from the windows in the memory of their past. The great sun-washed Gothic confection of the conservatory roof at Carlton House.
Light poured through fan shaped panels, stained glass glittering ruby, sapphire and topaz on the crystal and china lining the Prince’s table. Reason for a riot, that long, royal table with its perfect miniature serpentine stream bed winding under doll-sized hump-backed bridges and around an island.
A carved temple peeped through the trees, in the tiny, perfect tabletop kingdom for the newly named Regent.
Colored light passed over Roger Ramsay like ghostly jewels.
“There were live fish,” he said.
“Dulcie?” Martha stood at the foot of the stairs. “Your father wishes to see you.”
She jumped up, smoothed her skirt. The wispy fog of the past drifted away as she descended the stairs with bouncing steps, toward the low murmur of masculine voices. Her hand trembled in turning the cold, porcelain knob. Would her father understand? Would he consent to her working with a gentleman of Ramsay’s reputation?
Breath held, she opened the study door, temporarily blinded by the light.
“Live fish. Dace, roach, gudgeons--flashes of silver and gold. Royal fish for a royal meal. Pretty--until halfway through the main course they turned belly up and died.”
She pictured fish flopping, death’s struggle. Like the women who had been trampled. Like . . . something yet to come. Roger Ramsay stood silhouetted against the window’s fogged glow, goldfish bright, the blue of him blending with the sky, the room laced with the cool hue.
“Miss Selwyn. We meet again.” He had always been polite, the man of her daydreams and nightmares.
“Mr. Ramsay.” She could not pretend herself surprised to see him.
Her father nodded, a weighty inclination, as if to impress upon her the importance of his consent. “Mr. Ramsay has a request to make of you Dulcie. There is danger involved. I leave it to you to decide if you would help him, for the King’s sake, for England’s safety.”
Her eyes widened. What magic was this?
“Perhaps you could take Mr. Ramsay to the sitting room to discuss this?”
Dulcie’s eyes widened. Her heart leapt as she nodded obedience, stepped to the door and led Mr. Ramsay across the hall.
He drew the door shut behind him on entering and leaned against it, as if to hold back the world. He smiled a tight little smile. “Satisfied? He knows me for who and what I am. It is more than my own brothers know. My fate rests in his hands, and yours.”
She crossed to the window to stare out at a familiar landscape. The pane reflected the blue glow of her newfound companion. “As you would hold mine in yours, sir.”
Deep in her soul she felt the future stir.
Chapter Seventeen
Nov
Accustomed to guarding his expression, Roger guarded it now.
With a throaty laugh, Selwyn poured another drink. “I take it she is correct?”
Roger swirled his rum, studying the way the movement of the liquid seemed to suck light into the glass. “And if I am devious, sir, but have no interest in disgracing your daughter?”
The fullness of Roger Ramsay’s presence set Dulcie’s heart racing in the moment before he pulled the doorbell. She knew it was he. Martha’s voice rose in the stairwell, along with the masculine rumble of their visitor’s. Like bubbles in a fine champagne, the voices tickled her nose, rose giddy within the confines of her chest, a nameless, floating sense of expectancy. Roger Ramsay, the King’s Gargoyle, needed her. He went to the trouble of seeing her father, as she had insisted.
The house swelled at the seams in making him welcome. A servant tramped past her doorway with unusual haste. Footsteps skittered on the stairs. She watched shadows move. The dank, wet chill of the Thames crept up to the landing. Her eyes closed as she savored a faint whiff of sandalwood and wrapped herself in light from the windows in the memory of their past. The great sun-washed Gothic confection of the conservatory roof at Carlton House.
Light poured through fan shaped panels, stained glass glittering ruby, sapphire and topaz on the crystal and china lining the Prince’s table. Reason for a riot, that long, royal table with its perfect miniature serpentine stream bed winding under doll-sized hump-backed bridges and around an island.
A carved temple peeped through the trees, in the tiny, perfect tabletop kingdom for the newly named Regent.
Colored light passed over Roger Ramsay like ghostly jewels.
“There were live fish,” he said.
“Dulcie?” Martha stood at the foot of the stairs. “Your father wishes to see you.”
She jumped up, smoothed her skirt. The wispy fog of the past drifted away as she descended the stairs with bouncing steps, toward the low murmur of masculine voices. Her hand trembled in turning the cold, porcelain knob. Would her father understand? Would he consent to her working with a gentleman of Ramsay’s reputation?
Breath held, she opened the study door, temporarily blinded by the light.
“Live fish. Dace, roach, gudgeons--flashes of silver and gold. Royal fish for a royal meal. Pretty--until halfway through the main course they turned belly up and died.”
She pictured fish flopping, death’s struggle. Like the women who had been trampled. Like . . . something yet to come. Roger Ramsay stood silhouetted against the window’s fogged glow, goldfish bright, the blue of him blending with the sky, the room laced with the cool hue.
“Miss Selwyn. We meet again.” He had always been polite, the man of her daydreams and nightmares.
“Mr. Ramsay.” She could not pretend herself surprised to see him.
Her father nodded, a weighty inclination, as if to impress upon her the importance of his consent. “Mr. Ramsay has a request to make of you Dulcie. There is danger involved. I leave it to you to decide if you would help him, for the King’s sake, for England’s safety.”
Her eyes widened. What magic was this?
“Perhaps you could take Mr. Ramsay to the sitting room to discuss this?”
Dulcie’s eyes widened. Her heart leapt as she nodded obedience, stepped to the door and led Mr. Ramsay across the hall.
He drew the door shut behind him on entering and leaned against it, as if to hold back the world. He smiled a tight little smile. “Satisfied? He knows me for who and what I am. It is more than my own brothers know. My fate rests in his hands, and yours.”
She crossed to the window to stare out at a familiar landscape. The pane reflected the blue glow of her newfound companion. “As you would hold mine in yours, sir.”
Deep in her soul she felt the future stir.
Chapter Seventeen
Nov
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