The Phoenix Of Love. Susan Schonberg

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       Chapter One

       Norwood Park, Surrey 1808

      “Dammit, man!” exclaimed the marquis. “You must be mistaken!”

      John Richard Markston, the fourth Marquis of Traverston, paced the worn carpet of his library floor. One hand moved distractedly through his raven black hair, standing the none-too-clean strands up and then immediately smoothing them down again. His gray eyes, colored at the moment like some dark forbidding sky before a storm, looked about him with a restlessness that betrayed his inner feelings all too well.

      He felt trapped.

      The marquis had once been a handsome man. There were few who could contradict that. But the dandies and bits of muslin he had once taken as companions back in his younger days would be hard-pressed to recognize him now. It wasn’t just the blue-black shadow across his jaw and neck, silent testimony to his recent self-negligence, but the rest of his appearance, as well. Proud shoulders now slightly stooped over with hunger, tattered clothing that hadn’t been patched in years and the black shadows under his eyes all spoke of years spent in self-destruction.

      The solicitor, Mr. Babcock, was at first incredulous to think that the bitter man pacing in front of him was really the marquis. He had come to know the marquis’s maternal grandfather rather well over the last few years of that gentleman’s life, and it shocked the lawyer to finally make the acquaintance of the notorious grandson. Of course, he had heard stories about Traverston, but he hadn’t realized how little they were exaggerated until he saw the man for himself.

      Looking around the library now, Mr. Babcock thought that the room showed about as much abuse as the nobleman himself. The solicitor guessed that it had been months since the fireplace had been used, and probably much longer since it had been swept. The furniture, what few moth-eaten remains of it there were, looked every second of its age. Indeed, Mr. Babcock would not have attempted to seat himself in this room, even if he had been asked, which he had not, for fear of inflicting undue hardship on his carefully groomed person.

      The small portly man measured his reply to the marquis before finally giving it in as soothing a tone as possible. He did not want to agitate his client any more than he was already. There was no telling what the madman was capable of. Not too many years ago, hadn’t there been some tale about the marquis in connection with a young girl who had gone missing? He shuddered and forced himself to go on.

      “Be assured, my lord,” he responded in a bland, colorless tone of voice as he took off his spectacles and gave them a thorough rub with his handkerchief. He took his time cleaning the lenses before replacing them on his nose. “There is no mistake. Your grandfather’s will clearly states that you are to inherit five hundred thousand pounds upon his death, provided that you are married.”

      The solicitor put his arms behind his back, unconsciously spreading both feet out slightly in order to look more authoritative. “In the event that his death finds you unmarried…” he paused, wrinkling his nose at the marquis’s surroundings in order to indicate that he gathered this was the case “…then you have exactly two weeks to remedy the situation before the entire fortune goes to your cousin, David Hamilton.”

      Traverston’s look was thunderous. A more perceptive man would have immediately left the room after delivering such a speech, but sadly, Mr. Babcock was not noted for his powers of observation. Therefore it was a great shock for the solicitor to find himself lifted some foot above the ground with his feet dangling in the air and the marquis’s enraged visage just inches from his own.

      “My good sir,” Traverston muttered between clenched teeth. “I suspect that you have failed to look for some alternative, some loophole,” he said, emphasizing the last words with a little shake, “in as complete a manner as possible. Might I suggest,” he growled, indicating that it was not really a suggestion, “you do so now.”

      Believing he need make his request no clearer, the marquis dropped the solicitor. With a speed incredible for one of his ungainly bodily proportions, Mr. Babcock raced to the other end of the room. Belatedly comprehending his error, he attempted to straighten his clothes and his dignity while keeping a wary eye on his aggressor.

      “My lord,” he cooed even as he smoothed his person, “I fail to understand.” At the marquis’s intensified frown, Mr. Babcock began to sputter, all of his lawyerly aplomb completely forgotten. “I mean…forgive me, my lord, it’s just that with this hovel, I thought you would be happy to…”

      Mr. Babcock broke off, his hands held out in front of him to ward off the marquis’s impending attack as the nobleman began to stalk him. But Traverston stopped just short of his quaking visitor.

      “My dear Mr. Babcock,” Traverston growled, “it is not your job to understand my motives.” His eyes seemed to shoot plumes of fire straight through the heart of the man cowering before him. “I pray you remember that in the future!”

      Mr. Babcock gulped audibly. “Yes, my lord.”

      Turning his back on the lawyer, Traverston walked over to the fireplace. It was an action Mr. Babcock divined was born of habit as there was no heat to be gained there now. Lost in thought, Traverston took his time before addressing the solicitor again. When he finally did, all trace of his former antipathy was gone, leaving in its wake what appeared to be a hint of the former cool and regal marquis.

      His shoulders back and his manner direct, Traverston said, “Return here at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. I will expect a full report on your progress at that time.”

      “Yes, my lord,” groveled Mr. Babcock. He turned around and headed for the door, his host making no effort to show him out. Still he hesitated before opening the great double doors that would take him to the hall and ultimately out of the accursed house. Turning around to face the marquis once more, he opened his mouth in a final inquiry. Then, remembering what had happened the last time he had dared to question matters, he thought better of what he was about to say and immediately returned to the doors in order to resume his previous course out of the house. Two minutes later, the solicitor started to breathe easier as a hired post chaise drove him away from Norwood Park.

      As Traverston listened to the clip of the retreating horses’ hooves, he sank into the only usable armchair left in the library and acknowledged the weariness he was feeling. At eight and twenty, he knew he was too young to feel this tired, but he was exhausted all the same.

      He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the cracking red leather upholstery, trying to wipe his mind clean of all thought. He clenched his hands and released them, willing the tension his solicitor’s СКАЧАТЬ