Free Secret for a Nightingale by Victoria Holt Page A

clouds overhead and I thought there would be a storm before the day was out. I was in the long gallery looking at the portraits. I could see how like some of his ancestors Aubrey was. I studied the faces, some pensive, some smiling, some merry, some serious; and they all seemed to be looking out of their canvases assessing me!
    It was quite an eerie feeling, standing there as it grew visibly darker. There were moments in this house when I fancied I was being watched, that unseen figures from the past were close to me interested in this girl who had the temerity to attempt to intrude into the family circle.
    There was one portrait which interested me particularly, perhaps because the face of the man reminded me of Aubrey’s. His eyes followed me wherever I was, and the expression seemed to change as I watched. I fancied I could see the lips curl up in amusement because the subject of the picture knew that he both fascinated and repelled me. The white curls of his wig hung down almost to his shoulders and were crowned by a wide-brimmed hat which had just a touch of the military about it.
    His coat was mulberry-coloured velvet caught in at the waist; beneath it, his waistcoat was elaborately embroidered and almost as long as the coat. It was closely fitted to the waist and then flared out. The buttons were like jewels. His knee breeches were caught just below the knees with ornamental buckles. His legs were well shaped and the buckles on his shoes matched those at his knees. He was a very elegant gentleman.
    “Hello!”
    I started; and such was my mood that for a moment I thought it was the dandy in the picture who had spoken. I spun round. Aubrey must have
    come in very quietly and so absorbed was I that I had not heard him. He slipped his arm through mine.
    “I think you are rather fascinated by Harry St. Clare,” he said.
    “You wouldn’t be the first one, I am sure.”
    “So he is Harry St. Clare, is he? He must be quite a distant relative.
    That must have been painted about a hundred years ago. “
    “That’s true. The hat gives it away. It’s Dettingen.. named after the battle. You ought to know the date. Somewhere in the I740S, I believe.”
    “Yes.”
    “They were all the rage, those hats, after the battle. And you can imagine that Harry would always be in the height of fashion.”
    “Do you know the history of all your ancestors?”
    “Only those who distinguished themselves like Harry.”
    “How did he distinguish himself? At Dettingen?”
    “Not on your life! He was too clever for that. Harry was a Rake. Harry was the Devil Incarnate. He was involved in some fine old scandals and incurred the wrath of his father, grandfather and in fact the whole family.”
    “What did he do?”
    “Nothing that was good. If there was mischief, Harry was in it. He nearly lost the family fortunes. He died young. They said the Devil claimed Harry. I expect he is now having a riotous time in Hell. It would be just what he would revel in.”
    “I think you rather like him.”
    “Well, aren’t villains always more exciting than saints? Not that we’ve had a great many of the latter in the family. Harry was a member of one of the Hell-Fire Clubs, which were a fashion in those days among the lazy good-for-nothing young men who had the inclination for dissipation and a certain amount of money which allowed them to indulge in it.”
    “What did he do?”
    “Evil. Dabbled in the black arts. Worshipped the Devil. Indulged in depravity generally. He was a member of Sir Francis Dashwood’s club at Medmenham near West Wycombe. Dashwood built a place in the form of a monastery
     
    and there the members worshipped the Devil. Black Mass . depravity orgies. You could never imagine what practices they indulged in. ” Aubrey’s eyes shone with excitement.
    “Harry wasn’t content with that. The story is that he formed his own club and went one better than Dashwood.”
    “A very clever artist painted the portrait,” I