Lord Sebastian's Secret (The Duke's Sons #3)(54)
“You’ll come up with something, I know.”
“Me?” He frowned. “You’re the clever one.”
“Not about…action campaigns.” She smiled fondly up at him. “You’re the master there. Look at the way you saved us when we were lost. I’ve no doubt you’ll do so again.”
“But…” This wasn’t a matter of building a fire or cutting some bracken. This was a war of words. The admiration in his betrothed’s gaze filled Sebastian with pride, and apprehension. She had no notion how stupid he could be when it came to intangible conflicts.
A distant call came from the garden outside. “Georgina?”
“That’s Emma,” she said. “Probably warning me that I’m wanted. I must go.”
With a final squeeze of his hand, she slipped away. Sebastian remained in the recess, savoring the lingering scent of her perfume and memory of her touch, giving her time to get well away. He wanted nothing more than to impress her by saving the day. She’d compared him to a knight, he remembered. Those were the fellows who rode in like a one-man cavalry regiment and rescued the maiden in distress. If only it was a matter of riding… But it wasn’t. Or saber work or navigating a forest path. He had no idea how to unpick the current tangle. It seemed all too likely that he’d fail.
In the dimness of the tower, Sebastian winced. He didn’t think he could bear to see the impatience and disappointment in her eyes that he’d endured from schoolmasters and tutors throughout his youth. He’d thought he’d come to terms with his limitations, but now a whole new level of jeopardy opened before him.
“Sykes,” he said aloud. Ideas were the man’s meat and potatoes. Words were like the air he breathed. He’d think of something.
When he rang, Sykes appeared promptly in Sebastian’s bedchamber, even though it wasn’t a time of day when he customarily had duties. “You know the mess we’re in,” Sebastian said when the door had closed behind him. Outraged at the marquess’s unfairness, Sebastian had recounted the story as he was undressing the previous evening.
“Yes, my lord.” Sykes shook his head, and the playwright peeped out from behind the ideal servitor. “I never thought to hear myself say so, but it’s beyond anything I could have invented. An Eastern magician. Visions of barbarians. A marriage in peril.” He started to rub his hands together gleefully, then recalled himself.
“I wouldn’t call Mitra a magician,” Sebastian objected. “He certainly doesn’t.”
“Quite a modest fellow, as far as I have observed,” Sykes said.
He appeared to think he was agreeing with Sebastian, when in fact this was quite off the main track. “Lady Georgina thinks I can make it all right,” Sebastian told him. “But I’ve no idea how.”
“A conundrum,” Sykes replied. “They say in the servants’ hall that his lordship never wavers once he fixes on a notion.”
This was bad news. Worse, Sykes didn’t sound as helpful as usual. Which worried Sebastian, even as he acknowledged that the problem was knottier than composing a proper letter or deciphering some wit’s puzzling remarks. “Even nonsensical notions?” he asked.
“Particularly those,” the valet responded with obvious relish.
Sebastian resisted the impulse to kick a nearby footstool. “I don’t want to be at odds with my father-in-law. But I will not be bullied in this matter.”
Sykes straightened like a trooper who’d been caught slouching on the parade ground. “No, my lord.”
Sebastian turned to the window, looking out over the castle gardens. Even after so many years, he disliked asking outright for help. An inner judge always insisted that a man shouldn’t need it. But he did. And for some reason, Sykes was making him say it, rather than anticipating his request. He had no choice but to speak. “You’re always full of ideas. I thought you might have a suggestion.”
“I can’t say that I do, my lord.”
Sebastian turned to him, surprised. Sykes never ran short of schemes. “Well, could you, er, think about it?”
“Very well, my lord. But you know, you may very well discover a solution.”
Sebastian stared. If he’d had to describe Sykes’s expression, which was never an easy task, he’d have said that he looked like a man who’d glimpsed a promising opportunity. Which was bewildering and quite at odds with what Sykes had said. Sebastian very nearly groaned aloud. If Sykes was at a standstill, then he really was lost.
Twelve
Sebastian had thought that things were bad enough with Georgina’s father, but dinner that evening proved he’d underestimated the man’s determination to express his displeasure. Every word he spoke seemed designed to show them all that he was not a man to be thwarted. He dominated the conversation at table, forcing everyone to listen to his discussion with Mitra and Joanna Byngham.
They went on and on about cycles of time and creation and destruction, using words Sebastian had never heard. He would have been content to let them, and never to learn the meaning of words such as kalpa and yuga. But every few minutes the marquess shot a question in Sebastian’s direction, like a sudden volley from an entrenched position. The older man’s expression, as he watched Sebastian struggle to reply, was evilly smug.