Laying eyes on his father for the first time had been a bit unnerving earlier, even though he had told himself he had been prepared for the meeting.
But here, in the very close confines of the servants’ stairs, the full impact of his father’s presence threw him completely off guard. He had thought Middlebury almost as tall as he was. He wasn’t, not up close. He was several inches shorter.
The man smelled of brandy. That must have been his “research,” and the reason he shook as if with palsy or moved so carefully. A drunk had to be wary of stairs.
Being this close, Beck noticed in the candle’s thin, flickering yellow light the places his father’s valet had missed when he’d shaved him. His forehead was furrowed with deep worry lines.
“Here, here, here now,” the marquess grumbled, tugging on the wrist Beck held. Beck let go.
“My lord, you surprised me,” Beck said respectfully.
“Did I?” Delight came to his eye. “That is good? Yes?” And then suspicion. “What are you doing here?”
“Avoiding being forced to hear a young woman sing.”
“The Purley chit. My wife said she was to entertain the company. Is she any good?”
“I don’t wish to be trapped with the others to find out.”
The marquess nodded as if that made sense. Then he abruptly changed the topic. “Would you like to see my research?”
“Yes,” Beck said without hesitation.
“Come then.” He motioned for Beck to follow him as he started up the stairs to the next floor. His movements were easier going up the staircase. He opened the door and held it for Beck to join him in the passageway.
A trio of servants were standing there. One didn’t wear livery and was probably the valet. He spoke. “My lord, we were looking for you.”
“I’m right there.” The marquess said this brusquely and with the consequence of a noble. He no longer sounded confused. The valet and servants stepped back, and the marquess led Beck toward a set of double doors at the end of the hall.
Beck half expected the servants to attempt to stop him. Instead, they too followed in the marquess’s wake.
“This way,” his father said, opening one of the double doors himself.
Inside, another valet was preparing the room for bed. He nodded in deference to his lord but, again, did not act alarmed to see Beck.
Lord Middlebury led him into a side room that served as a study but reminded Beck of an apothecary shop with stacks of what appeared to be dried herbs and flowers on the side table and filling sections of shelves lining the walls. There were also stuffed birds and small animals, their glass eyes reflecting the light of candles in the black iron chandelier. The chairsand desk were covered with books cracked open to certain pages. In the middle of the desk was a stack of papers that resembled a manuscript. The pages were covered with cramped handwriting, splotched with ink stains. There was no window, and the air was smoky from the burning of tallow candles and laden with the smells of old leather, glues, and whatever plants he was harboring.
The marquess walked around the desk and sat. “Now, here is my research.” He looked up as if expecting Beck to be impressed and then pointed an impatient finger at a chair stacked with books on the opposite side of the desk, a silent order for him to sit.
Beck looked askance before moving the stack.
“Yes, yes,” his lordship said. “Move it all.”
Placing the stack on top of another pile of books on another chair, Beck sat. “What does your research concern, my lord?”
“I’m doing a complete history of all the flora, fauna, and insects at Colemore.”
Only then did Beck notice the board on the wall with insects stuck to it. “That sounds like an interesting study, my lord,” he replied politely.
His father nodded agreement. “Very important, very important. I’ve even been tracking the river’s course. It is constantly changing. Oh, not in a way that a yeoman would notice. However, a scientist looks at incremental differences. I study to see if the changes have an effect on the natural habitats of all living creatures.” He pointed to a stuffed pink-footed goose looking down on them.
Beck had not anticipated such a direct and sensible answer. “I’m certain they do.”
“You would be right.” There was no shake in his lordship’s hand now even though a wine cup was close at hand. He dipped a pen in ink. He prepared to write. “I also keep track of everyone who comes to visit Colemore. We, too, are living creatures. I forgot a few names of our guests. You were one of them. You are?”
For a beat, Beck was tempted to say,Your son. But the man obviously didn’t see any resemblance. To be fair, Beck must favor his mother.
He wanted to ask Lord Middlebury her name, to have plain speaking and be done with this... but something warned him that now was not the time. He didn’t wish to upset his father. Not if he didn’t have to. “Nicholas Curran. Lady Orpington’s nephew.”
