because they are black, you know. Must you always wear that funereal color? It’s really depressing. You remind me of an ink blot, marring the pristine perfection of my lovely blue and white copybook. It’s jarring; upon my soul, it is. Look at me, for instance. This new green coat of mine is subdued, yet it whispers of life, of hope, of the glorious promise of spring. You look like the dead of winter—a very long, depressingly hard winter.”
Pierre ceased pacing to look at his father, who was sitting at his ease, his elbows propped on the arms of his chair, his long fingers spread wide apart and steepled as he gazed up at his son. “Ah,” André Standish said, his handsome face lighting as he smiled. “I do believe I have succeeded in gaining your attention. How wonderful. I shall have to find some small way in which to reward myself. Perhaps a new pony for my stables? But to get back to the point. You have been here for three days, my son, visiting your poor, widowed father in his loneliness—a full two days longer than any of your infrequent visits to me in the past five years, seven months, and six days. I think we can safely assume the formalities have been dutifully observed. Do you not believe it is time for you to get to the point?”
Pierre looked at his father and saw himself as he would appear in thirty years. The man had once been as dark as he, although now his hair was nearly all silver, but his black eyes still flashed brightly in his lean, deeply tanned face. His body was still firmly muscled, thanks to an active, sporting life, and he had not given one inch to his advancing years. Pierre smiled, for he could do a lot worse than follow in his father’s footsteps.
“What makes you think there is anything to discuss?” Pierre asked, lowering himself into the chair facing his father. “Perhaps you are entering into your dotage and are only imagining things. Have you entertained that possibility, Father?”
André regarded him levelly. “I would rather instead reflect on the grave injustice I have done you by not beating you more often during your youth,” he answered cheerfully. “You may be the scourge of London society, Pierre, if the papers and my correspondence are to be believed, but you are naught but a babe in arms when it comes to trying to fence with me, your sire and one time mentor. Now, if you have been unable to discover a way onto the subject, may I suggest that you begin by telling me all about the funeral of that dastardly fellow, Quennel Quinton? After all, he’s been below ground feeding the worms for more than three months.”
Only by the slight lifting of one finely sculpted eyebrow did Pierre Standish acknowledge that his father had surprised him by landing a flush hit. “Very good, Father,” he complimented smoothly. “My congratulations to your network of spies. Perhaps you’d like to elaborate and tell me what I’m about to say next?”
André sighed and allowed his fingers to intertwine, lightly laying his chin on his clasped hands. “Must I, Pierre? It’s all so mundane. Oh, very well. We could start with the box, I suppose.”
Now Pierre couldn’t contain his surprise. His eyes widened, and he leaned forward in his chair, gripping the armrests. “You know?” he questioned dumbly, as nothing more profound came to his lips.
André rose to go over to the drinks cabinet—an elegant piece containing several delicately carved shelves and holding a generous supply of assorted spirits—and took his time debating over just which crystal decanter held exactly the proper drink for the moment. “Yes,” he said consideringly, finally selecting a deep burgundy and pouring generous amounts into two glasses, “I rather think this will do.” Returning to his chair, he held out one glass to his son. “Here you go, Pierre. Red with meat—and confession. Rather apt, don’t you think? And close your mouth, if you please. It’s decidedly off-putting.”
Pierre took the glass, automatically raising it to his lips, then shook his head as he watched André gracefully lower his body once more into the chair. “Much as I know you abhor hearing someone tell you what you already know, Father, I must say this out loud so that I can believe it. You knew Quennel Quinton was blackmailing Anton Follet? You knew the box left to me in Quinton’s will was full of love letters Follet had written to—had written to—”
“My wife,” André finished neatly. “Dearest Eleanore, your mother, to mimic you and likewise point out the obvious. Yes, of course I knew. Quinton first tried to blackmail me with those silly letters, but I convinced him of the futility of that particular course and suggested he apply to Follet instead. Follet’s wife holds the purse strings, you understand. I imagine the poor fellow was put through hoops these past half-dozen years, sniffing about everywhere for the money to keep Quinton quiet. Why, the economies he must have been forced to endure! I do seem to remember hearing something about the man having to sell up most of his hunting stock at Tatt’s. But then, one must pay the piper if one is going to commit things to paper. You’ll remember, Pierre, that I always warned you against just that sort of foolishness.”
It was taking some time for his father’s words to sink in to Pierre’s brain, and even then he missed the significance of the words “silly letters.” “Quinton approached me within two months of arriving here after being invalided home from Spain, to learn that Mother had died. He waved the letters in front of me as he smiled—quite gleefully, I recall—and told me of Mother’s romantic indiscretion, then said I would have to pay for his silence.”
“Wasn’t very smart, this man Quinton, was he? I’m astounded that he stayed above ground as long as he did.”
Pierre laughed, a short, dissatisfied chuckle. “No, he was not very smart. I entertained the notion of ridding the world of the man, but rejected the idea as needlessly exertive. As you said, Father, I am your student, as well as adverse to being blackmailed. In the end, I, too, suggested he apply to Follet for funds, with the stipulation that he leave me the letters in his will so that I might continue the blackmail myself. After all, Mother was dead. I needed to take my revenge somewhere.” Pierre allowed his gaze to shift toward the carpet. “I didn’t go through with my intention, I must admit, but it seemed a reasonably workable idea at the time. I was rather overset.”
“Oh, Pierre, let’s not dress the matter up in fine linen. You were devastated! Otherwise, you would have repeatedly beaten Quinton about the head until he gave the damning letters over to you. You felt betrayed, by your mother and then by me, whom you felt must have been a dismal failure as a husband if my wife had been forced to seek love elsewhere. You stormed off to London in a childish snit and have returned here only sporadically ever since, duty calls to your aging father. Isn’t that right, Pierre?”
Suddenly Pierre was angry. Very angry. He jumped up from his chair and stalked over to the window, to look out over the perfectly manicured gardens. “What did you expect me to do? Confront you? I had left here to fight on the Continent believing that you and Mother were the perfect couple. It certainly was the impression you gave. Then, shortly after I returned home, injured and weary, I learned that my sainted mother had not only died, but left behind her a legacy of shame and disgrace. I couldn’t in good conscience intrude on your grief by telling you about it, yet at the same time I was angry with you for forcing her to indulge herself with someone like Follet. I had to get away before I exploded.”
It was quiet in the room for a few minutes, during which time the Standish butler entered and looked to his master for instructions concerning the serving of the evening meal, only to be waved closer so that he could hear a short, whispered instruction.
André Standish allowed his son time to compose himself, then walked over to place a hand on Pierre’s shoulder. “Have you read Follet’s searing love missives, my son, now that they are at last in your possession?” he asked, his voice light. “Or have you thought to tell me about them at last and then burn them, unread, like some brainless ninny out of a very bad pennypress novel?”
“No, I hadn’t thought of burning them,” Pierre answered, slowly gaining control of himself. He felt off balance, a feeling to which he was unaccustomed, and he disliked the sensation immensely. In London he was respected, even feared. Here, he was once again his father’s son, standing in awe of the master. “Nor have I read them. I couldn’t bring myself that low. To be truthful, I don’t know what I plan to do with them. That’s why I’m here—prowling about your drawing room like a panther.