Page 32 of A Stroke of Luck
“I am not a thief, sir!” The accusation caused her younger brother’s reply to quiver in indignation.
Zara pushed through the rhododendrons and lifted her eyes above the stone ledge. The scene inside the library might have been comical had she been in any mood to laugh. The gentleman, his beet red face adding yet another splotch of color to his appearance, had hold of Perry’s collar, but his fist spasmed open as the spine of the book in question jabbed hard into the embroidered roses of his waistcoat. A low whoof of air rushed out as Harold fell back a step.
“And I’ll have you know there is not a speck of grime on my hands or my clothing,” continued the lad hotly. “I wasn’t causing any sort of harm. I was merely reading.”
Harold’s eyes flicked down to the cover of the book and then up again. By that time, he had recovered enough of his breath to jeer. “In Greek? What fustian! You are a liar as well as a light-fingered urchin. Now put that down, before I send one of the servants to fetch the magistrate.”
Zara was just about to jump to the defense of her sibling when she found herself beaten to the punch.
“What seems to be the trouble?”
Although the speaker was out of view, she had no trouble identifying the duke’s deep baritone.
“I found this urchin sneaking about in here, with a valuable book in hand,” replied Harold. “Which, no doubt, was about to be slipped inside his jacket.”
“Indeed?” Prestwick’s boots beat a slow tattoo across the parquet floor. “And what makes you think he wanted to stealThe Frogs?”
“Frogs!” croaked Harold. “Where? Has the impertinent brat brought a pocketful of the slimy creatures into the house?” He gave a little hop. “Help me haul him out of here, Twick! I don’t give a fig if he wishes to poach my polliwogs, but I will not stand for the purloining of my valuables.”
Perry fixed him with a look of withering contempt. “His Grace was referring to the title of the book.”
Harold’s face went blank.
“Aristophanes,” murmured the duke.
As the gentleman’s mouth parted in confusion, Zara was struck by the uncanny resemblance to a fish. A fish out of water.
“Lud, what an idiot,” said Perry under his breath.
She though she saw a grin tweak up at the corners of Prestwick’s mouth before he resumed a neutral countenance. “Really, Harold, there is no need to wax melodramatic over a Greek comedy. I told the lad he was welcome to sit here and read. He wasn’t causing any harm?—”
“What do you call that!” demanded his cousin, his finger pointing at the torn volume lying upon the carpet. “The guiltyparty should have his backside soundly birched for such an act of wanton destruction.”
“Yes, it was rather careless of me to drop it.”
Harold turned a bit green around the gills.
“But I shall exercise my ducal prerogative in deciding not to bare my buttocks to your wielding of the rod, if you don’t mind.”
“I didn’t mean, er, that is …” Seeing his accusation had gone dangerously awry, Harold sucked in his breath and retreated to a more jovial tone. “Of course not. Just making a little joke.”
“Good. Then I shall also assume you have no objection to my granting young Perseus permission to make use of the library whenever he wishes.” The duke made a slight adjustment to the angle of his watchfob. “After all, I am sure I need not remind you that for now, Master Greeley’s brother has just as much claim to these … valuables as you.”
Harold looked as though he would like to rip up at something, too, but merely inclined a stiff nod.
“You may return to your reading later, Perry. Right now, I would like you to come along with me.”
Zara watched her brother follow along at Prestwick’s heels like an eager puppy, then turned and slipped away from the window ledge, her emotions even more confused than before.
Hell’s Bells!It was bad enough to feel an unwilling physical attraction to the dratted man without finding herself in danger of actually liking him!
Nine
He had thought things couldn’t get much worse, but apparently he had been wrong. Fisting the sheet of scented ivory paper into a tight ball, Prestwick chucked it into the flames and reached for the decanter of brandy.
“Lady Farrington driving you to strong drink?” Shouldering his way through the closed door without the benefit of a knock, Stump moved over to the hearth and added another log to the fire. “Can’t say I blame you. That old battle ax can chop anyone’s sanity into mincemeat within thirty seconds. Then there’s her lapdog of a grandson, waitin’ to chew on the scraps.”
Prestwick grunted and filled his glass nearly to the brim. “It is not merely my great aunt and Harold who are cutting up my peace of mind.”
