Free The Midnight Queen by Sylvia Izzo Hunter Page B

amidst clay and compost and thorns, yet still look the gentleman at meals. But today, as he hurried into the dining-room to join the others at table—his hair hastily slicked down and, under his coat and waistcoat, a clean shirt sticking to still-damp skin—the Professor’s disapproving glare forced him to swallow back a hot, unreasonable rage.
    â€œM-m-my apologies, sir,” he stammered, trying to slip gracefully into the empty place opposite Sophie and Joanna. He might have spared himself the effort; the chair he drew out from the table scraped horribly along the floor, his legs tangled with the cloth, and, attempting to keep his balance, he put his elbow down in a clatter of silver.
    Amelia and the Professor glared; Joanna for once had the grace to muffle her giggles. Sophie looked across at him with sympathy in her dark eyes.
    â€œNow that Mr. Marshall has had the goodness to join us,” said Professor Callender, with one last disparaging look at Gray, “let us begin our meal.” He offered the ritual words of thanks to Jove and Juno, to the All-Father and the Mother Goddess; Gray had never once heard his host invoke any local deity. Gray—raised on Kernowek servants’ tales—was of a different habit; under his breath he murmured his own thanks to Cerridwen, Rosmerta, and Dahut before lifting his knife and fork.
    *   *   *
    They were still at table when young Katell, smoothing her skirts with trembling fingers, opened the door of the dining-room.
    â€œBegging your pardon, m’sieu’,” she said in hesitant Français, “the coach ’as brought your guest. Shall I show ’im in, m’sieu’? I told ’im I’d show ’im to ’is rooms if ’e wanted, but—”
    â€œThat will do, Katell,” said the Professor, in the same language; “that will do. Show him in.”
    Katell curtseyed again and fled; the Professor and Amelia looked after her, shaking their heads.
    Then the door opened again and Gray heard Katell’s voice once more: “M’sieu’ le Vicomte Carteret,” it said, as a dark-haired, slightly stooped man of perhaps forty or fifty sidled into the room.
    The Professor was on his feet, ushering in the newcomer while his flustered housemaid brought another chair to place beside Gray’s. “I beg you will allow me to present my eldest daughter, Amelia,” he said; the stranger bowed. “My daughter Sophia; my daughter Joanna.”
    Gray fancied that the stranger studied Sophie’s face just a trifle longer than was polite.
    â€œAnd this,” said the Professor, turning to indicate Gray, “is a student of mine, Mr. Marshall.”
    Viscount Carteret—
where have I heard that name before?
wondered Gray—also turned, and nodded to Gray. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Marshall,” he said.
    Gray bowed silently in return. His mind was racing, and he was grateful that the obligatory gesture of respect hid his face, however briefly. For, if he could not recall where he had heard this man’s name, he had not forgotten that insinuating nasal voice.
    â€œWill you not take some refreshment with us, my lord?” said Amelia.
    Lord Carteret turned to her with a smile. “I beg you will excuse me, Miss Callender,” he said; “I fear I should be at best indifferent company.”
    I did not mistake the voice,
thought Gray;
it is he, indeed.
    â€œMy journey has been long,” their guest continued, “and I am presently more in need of repose than of refreshment.”
    So saying, he allowed Katell to lead him away to Callender Hall’s best-appointed guest room.
    Gray’s relief at this departure was considerable. Though not unpractised in the art of concealing his state of mind from others, he feared that this shock, combined with the previous evening’s disastrous experiment, might be too much for him. He