He’d known his father was dead, of course. The news reached him relatively soon after the event, a mere two months after the funeral. Simeon had been traveling through Palmyra, going to Damascus. He had ducked into an English church that loomed up on a Damascene street and offered prayers.
But it wasn’t until he walked through the door of Revels House that he really understood. His burly father—the man who had thrown him in the air, and thrown him on a horse, and thrown him out of the hay loft once for gross impertinence—that man was gone.
The house seemed like a dry well, empty and lifeless. His mother had turned into a shrill, screaming dictator. His little brother was plump and indolent. The estate was neglected. Even in the house itself, things were cracked and broken. The rugs were stained; the curtains were faded.
Whose fault is it? asked his conscience.
I’m here now, he retorted.
He was back in England, to clean up the estate, manage his family, meet his wife.
His wife.
Another subject that he could examine only cautiously. He’d probably mishandled their first meeting. She was the opposite of what he expected. The Middle Way taught that beauty was only an outward shell, but Isidore’s beauty flared from within, as potent as a torch. She was like a princess, only he’d never seen a princess who had all her teeth.
At the very thought of her he had to slow down, because of confusion in his body about what he wanted to be doing at that moment. Running? Or—
The other.
He adjusted the front of his trousers and started to run faster.
Luncheon began on the wrong foot when Honeydew served bowls of thin broth. Simeon had forgotten that foolish English idea that broth was filling or, indeed, suitable for anyone but a wretched invalid.
He was ravenously hungry, having run an extra hour in a punitive effort to regain control over his body.
“I’ll wait for the next course,” he told Honeydew.
Honeydew nodded, but Simeon thought he saw anxiety in his eyes. The table was lit with tallow candles fit only for the servants’ quarters, so Simeon couldn’t see his face very clearly, but the reason for Honeydew’s anxiety was soon clear. Next they were each served one paper-thin slice of roast beef.
The following course was even more surprising. Simeon stared down at a sliced hard-boiled egg, across which was drizzled a brownish sauce, and lost his temper.
“Honeydew,” he said, keeping his voice even with an effort, “would you be so kind as to detail the menu?”
His mother intervened. “I designed the menu, as is necessary and proper. You can thank me, if you wish. This is a dish of oeufs au lapin.”
“Eggs,” Simeon said. “I see that.”
“With a sauce made from rabbit.”
“Ah.”
“Likely you have grown accustomed to rough fare,” she commented.
Godfrey was forking up his egg with a sort of desperate enthusiasm that made Simeon wonder about the next course.
There wasn’t one.
“You must be joking,” Simeon said, incredulous.
“We had eggs and meat in the same meal,” his mother said, staring at him. “And a sustaining broth to start. We do not eat lions’ flesh in England, you know! Your father and I always kept a moderate table.”
“This is not a moderate table,” Simeon said. “This is starvation fare.”
Godfrey leaned across the table and whispered loudly, “One of the footmen will bring you a large plate of bread and cheese before bed if you wish, Simeon. Sometimes there’s drippings as well.”
Their mother clearly heard, but she curled her lip and stared at the opposite wall.
No wonder the poor boy was round. Since his mother was not providing the food a growing boy needed, he had learned to hoard like a hungry beggar—and overeat when he had a chance. Simeon turned to the butler. “Honeydew, ask Mrs. Bullock to send whatever she can serve up within a few minutes, and I do not mean bread and cheese.”
Honeydew bowed and hastened from the room. His mother huffed and averted her eyes as if Simeon had belched in her presence.
But Godfrey asked, rather shyly, “Have you ever eaten a lion, brother?”
The dowager duchess opened her mouth and Godfrey amended his question, “Your Grace?”
“Not on a regular basis,” Simeon said. “There are tribes in the Barbary states who depend on lions as a source of food. I assure you that if they did not eat an occasional lion or two, the lions would multiply and gobble them instead.”
It was amazing the way his mother could convey utter disdain without glancing at him or saying a word. He turned back to Godfrey, whose eyes were shining with interest. “I once ate a stew composed of three different lions, as I understood it. It was rather gamey and tough, and not a flavor that I would wish to repeat.”
“Have you eaten a snake?”
“No. But—”
“Enough!” their mother said sharply.
That was all the conversation enjoyed at the Duke of Cosway’s dinner table.
Chapter Four
Gore House, Kensington
London Seat of the Duke of Beaumont
February 22, 1784
“Do you suppose that if I ordered a particularly enticing nightdress it might arouse him? Or do you suppose that nothing can arouse him at all? Jemma, do you know anyone we could ask about male incapability?”
Jemma wrinkled her nose. “Must we talk of this over breakfast, Isidore? Since the poor man has never seen a nightdress in his life, I advise simplicity. Ribbons rather than laces, for example. He might not be able to handle laces.”
Isidore looked down at her coddled eggs and felt a little nauseated. “I really do wish my mother were alive.”
“What would your mother do in this situation?”
“She would laugh. She used to laugh a great deal. She was Italian, you know, and she thought Englishmen were very foolish. Mind you, my father was Italian and she thought he was just as foolish as the worst Englishman.”
“How did she die?”
“They were sailing. A sudden squall came up and swamped their boat.” She was able to say it now, years later, without her voice breaking. Which was something of an achievement.
“I’m so sorry,” Jemma said. And being Jemma, she looked genuinely sorry.
“At least I have memories of her and Papa. And the aunt who raised me afterwards was truly wonderful.”
“Was she from your mother’s side?”
“No, she was my father’s sister. She accompanied me to the Cosway estate after the funeral; people thought that since I was affianced to a duke, it made sense for his mother to raise me. Since Cosway had reached his eighteenth year, we went through the proxy marriage. But I was clearly miserable living there, so my aunt snatched me away shortly thereafter.”
“I can imagine that the duchess must be an appalling companion. I met her only once, but she gave me a strict set-down.”
“The duchess—or dowager duchess, rather—does not believe in grief,” Isidore said, remembering. “She told me so repeatedly. I think she was quite happy to see the back of me, although she tried to make me return once she learned more of my aunt.”
Jemma raised an eyebrow.
“My aunt is a violinist. She told the duchess she would take me to live with my father’s relatives in Italy, but in fact we traveled around Europe as she gave concerts. We lived in Venice on and off, but we went farther afield as well, to Prussia, France, Brussels, Prague…”