Chapter Five
The next day,as Hugh sat down to luncheon, having slept soundly through breakfast, he contemplated the events of the previous evening. He felt certain that Mrs. Dove-Lyon was setting him up to become entrapped in one of her marriage schemes. That did not surprise him. It was the nature of her business. Heaven knew Brunswick had warned him about that countless times.
What surprised him was that the scheme was working. He hadn’t been able to forget about the veiled young lady since she’d left his side the previous night. Mrs. Dove-Lyon was a clever one, indeed.
He plucked the rose from his pocket and smiled, recalling the pleasure he’d felt at seeing it lying on his bureau that morning as he dressed. It hadn’t all just been a wonderful dream, he’d thought, as he’d picked up the rose and pocketed it close to his heart. Hugh pressed the soft red petals to his nose and inhaled. The smell brought to mind her pale, rose-water-scented neck, which had looked to be as smooth and silky as the petals that now brushed against his skin. He needed to know who she was—he needed to see the face under the veil. He closed his eyes and imagined her naked figure, slim and pale, submerged in atub of rose-scented water. Perhaps he would discover her secrets tonight.
“Is that a rose I see in your hand?”
Hugh looked up, startled out of his reverie, and upon seeing his mother, smiled. “It is.”
“Did you pluck it from my garden?” Mrs. Warsham slid into her seat.
“Indeed, I did,” Hugh lied, not wanting to alarm his mother by telling her that he’d received it from a veiled lady at the Black Widow of Whitehall’s gaming hell.
“How uncharacteristic of you,” his mother mused.
“Is it? I always admired our beautiful gardens in India, didn’t I? So, why shouldn’t I admire our lovely English garden as well?” Hugh could hear the defensiveness in his voice.
“True, and I am lucky we found a home with a lovely, intact garden that I’ve been able to nurture. It does make our home feel complete. I only meant to say that you seem extra fond of this particular flower. As though it arouses some pleasant memory within you.” The corner of her mouth lifted into a half smile.
“That sounds like much ado about nothing, Mother,” Hugh said in his most casual tone and placed the rose in his pocket, out of his mother’s sight. Then he turned to the fragrant bowl of chestnut soup, set down by one of the attending footmen. “Will Papa be joining us for luncheon?”
“No, he is dining at his club—let’s hope peacefully.” She picked up her spoon and dipped it into her soup.
“Madame!” A breathless footman rushed into the dining room.
“Jones, whatever is the matter?”
The young footman, who could have been no more than nineteen, looked wild eyed and flush faced. “It’s—I—the—”
Anxiety crept up Hugh’s throat. “What is it? Speak for heaven’s sake!”
“It’s—in the garden—General Warsham—he—”
Hugh pushed back his chair and raced past the footman. Something terrible must have happened to his father. Had his heart given way? He burst through the French doors leading to the patio and garden. Then he stopped in his tracks. His mother, who’d rushed up behind him, almost collided with him.
“My roses!” Mrs. Warsham shrieked.
Hugh stared in frozen amazement at the rows of headless rose bushes, bleeding red, pink, and white petals. Like a crazed warrior, General Warsham turned on a fresh row of pink roses and swung his saber, decapitating the entire row with perfect precision.
“William, no!” Mrs. Warsham shouted. “Hugh, make him stop!”
But Hugh knew better than to approach a crazed man swinging a saber, even if that man was his father, so he let the decapitations go forward until all the roses were beheaded.
General Warsham then sheathed his sword and marched up to the patio, where he kissed his bewildered wife on the cheek and said, “I’m quite famished. Shall we go in for lunch, my dear?”
Mrs. Warsham blinked at her husband, and Hugh wondered if his father was suffering from the same madness that plagued King George. Then he observed his mother’s face clouding with anger as she recovered her voice.
“We shall go nowhere until you explain yourself! You have desecrated the garden—all those lovely roses!”
“Desecrated?” General Warsham turned to the garden, still smiling. “If you ask me, it’s an improvement. I’m tired of looking at those blasted things. It’s time for a change. I’ll order the gardener to plant a new set of flowers—” he paused—“daffodils perhaps? Those don’t carry the stink of faux grandeur.”
“I know you all too well, William Warsham! This has nothing to do with your liking or disliking of flowers. Good heavens, I daresay you don’t even know a daffodil from a crocus. This is about your ridiculous feud with Sir Benedict Rose, and don’t try to tell me differently.”
“What happened today, Father?” Hugh had a feeling his mother was right and that the conflict between his father and Sir Benedict had escalated. “Did you get into another altercation with Sir Benedict?”
“I’ve been banned from my club for a month because of that bastard!” General Warsham fumed.
