Playing with Fire Read online

  PLAYING WITH FIRE

  Sandra Heath

  Chapter 1

  Sir Julian’s large ginger tomcat, Ozzy—short for Ozymandias—had been curled up asleep on a fireside chair for some time, but now awoke with a low growl. The sound was quite bloodcurdling in the silence of the vaulted library at Chelworth. Sir Julian looked up from the fragment of papyrus he had been studying. Both he and his pet knew they were no longer alone, because the dark green brocade curtains moved, and then the candle flame shivered as someone stealthily opened the glass doors from the south terrace. Whoever it was did not speak or make any attempt to reveal his or her presence.

  For a moment the sea could be heard crashing on the rocks down in the bay; then the draft subsided as the doors were closed again. Whoever it was had no legitimate business at the house, that much was certain. Sir Julian, middle-aged and none too strong, reached for the beautifully carved and polished alabaster beetle, called a scarab, that he used as a paperweight.

  It was November, 1800, and the last chime of midnight had just faded. Coals glowed faintly in the hearth of the marble fireplace, and the candle on the desk cast only a poor light in the lofty chamber. Shadows cast gloom over the Ancient Egyptian statuary and formed a cloak over furniture of the style the French called pharaonique. A great deal of Egypt had found its way to the remote estate on the heath above Chelworth Bay in Dorset. The house itself had recently been extensively improved to resemble a temple plucked from the banks of the Nile.

  The golden tassel of Sir Julian’s scarlet nightcap shone in the candlelight as he gazed uneasily at the drawn curtains. He was a tall, thin man of fifty-six, with an aquiline nose, kindly brown eyes, and graying hair that he always cropped very short and hid beneath a wig. He wore a floor-length blue paisley dressing robe over a nightshirt, and his bare feet were tucked into Turkish slippers, for he had been on the point of retiring when impulse had brought him to the library again. It was his great dream to be the first man to decipher hieroglyphs, and to that end he often worked well into the night; but hieroglyphs were banished from his mind as he sought to quieten Ozzy.

  “Hush, you fool of a cat!” he breathed, then spoke aloud to the unseen intruder. “I know you’re there; so show yourself, damn you!” No one responded; so with a shaking hand Sir Julian replaced the scarab on the desk, pulled open a drawer instead, and took out the pistol he kept there.

  At last the curtain moved, and a young man of about thirty emerged. He was of the highest ton, as was abundantly clear from the immaculate cut of his indigo velvet coat, white silk waistcoat and breeches, to the rich lace on his shirt and the flawless sapphire pin in his starched neck cloth. No low thief he, but a gentleman to his fingertips. Strong and well proportioned, with his long fair hair tied back with a black ribbon, Randal Fenworth, sixth Earl of Sanderby, was the coldhearted, ruthless son of Sir Julian’s late adversary, the fifth earl. But for all his arrogance and harshness, he was ultimately a coward, although no one in society had yet tested him to the point of finding out.

  Outraged by the intruder’s effrontery, Sir Julian rose to his feet. “Sanderby!”

  “The same.” Randal’s blue eyes were cold as he swept an insolent bow.

  “How dare you come here!” The pistol was leveled with a quivering hand.

  Randal hesitated, but only slightly. “Richardson, if I wish to speak to you, I have no choice but to come here. Mahomet and mountains, and so on.”

  “I cannot imagine why you wish to speak to me, for I most certainly do not wish to speak to you.” Sir Julian could not conceal his loathing for all things Fenworth.

  “I am disappointed, for I expected more of you than to brand the son with the imagined sins of the father.”

  “There was nothing imagined about what your father did,” Sir Julian answered coldly. “Besides, you have sins enough of your own.” Randal’s excesses were known throughout society.

  “I like to enjoy myself to the full, as I rather fancy you once did. Or does it please you to forget your own dissipations?”

  Dissipations? For a moment Sir Julian’s mind wandered. Long ago he and Randal’s father, Esmond, had been fellow antiquarians, sharing a passion for the land of the pharaohs. It was all that had brought them together, for in character they were as unalike as chalk and cheese, but solving the mysteries of hieroglyphs had united them. Their efforts had been in vain, and even today antiquarians across Europe still strove to find the key to Ancient Egypt’s inscriptions. But all those years ago, he, Julian Richardson, believed he had stumbled upon the answer, or at least, the first step toward the answer. It was then that Esmond revealed his true colors, destroying all the research in a fit of jealous rage, and substituting his own unlikely theories to the Society of Antiquaries, claiming they were Julian’s.

  Julian had been derided as a blinkered, misguided fool, and so complete had been his humiliation that he had retreated here to Chelworth. He had seldom returned to London since then, nor had he forgiven the Society for allowing Esmond to belittle him before the entire antiquarian world. The names Fenworth and Sanderby continued to be anathema even now.

  Guilt stabbed through Sir Julian, for although it had always suited him to blame Esmond’s professional jealousy for all that had happened, rivalry and jealousy of a very different kind had been as much the culprits. Esmond had been a cuckolded husband thirsting for revenge upon his wife’s lover—not that he was any ordinary husband, or that the lover regretted so much as a single kiss. And not that the new Lord Sanderby knew of his mother’s adultery. At least, that was Sir Julian’s fervent hope, although the use of the word dissipations was somewhat disquieting.

  Randal watched the older man’s face. “Well? Have you no reply?”

  “Just that I wish you to leave this house.”

  “First I will say my piece.”

  “No, damn your eyes, you’ll leave now!” cried Sir Julian, steadying the aim of the pistol with both hands. It was strange to find himself face-to-face with Felice’s son after all this time. Oh, how she had treasured this boy; were she still alive, how wretched she would be to see he had turned out not in her mold, but in that of his despicable father.

  The sound of Sir Julian’s raised voice agitated Ozzy. Ginger fur on end and back arched, he jumped down from the chair. To Sir Julian’s surprise, Randal stepped nervously back. “Keep that brute away from me, or so help me I’ll wring its neck,” he warned. However, it wasn’t fear of being attacked that moved him, but an acute susceptibility to cat fur. His nose had begun to tickle not long after he entered the library; now his eyes had started watering. Cats always seemed to sense his affliction, and in his opinion took perverse delight in triggering it.

  “Ozymandias!” Sir Julian spoke sharply, fearing that Randal was the sort of scoundrel to kick an animal. The tomcat’s ears went back resentfully, but he sat down where he was and confined himself to fixing Randal with the sort of feline glare that might well have prompted even the saint of Assisi to think twice.

  Randal gave an enormous sneeze and fished a large handkerchief from his pocket. “Get him right away from me,” he repeated.

  “I don’t know why I should tell my cat to do anything at all. He lives here and is at liberty to come and go as he pleases. You, however, have no right at all in this house.”

  “How very ungracious you are, to be sure,” Randal said softly.

  “You are surely not surprised? Your father ruined me in antiquarian circles, and set the interpretation of hieroglyphs back by years.”

  Randal walked toward the desk. “Who are you to criticize my father when your own conduct does not stand up to close inspection?”

  Did the fellow know about the affair with Felice? Sir Julian tried not to show anythi
ng. “We have absolutely nothing to say to each other, Sanderby.”

  “On the contrary, I have some excellent news to impart.”

  “News?”

  Randal had forgotten that in order to approach Sir Julian, it was necessary to go nearer to Ozzy as well. He knew his error within seconds, for his eyes began to stream all the more. Now would come the impossibility of pronouncing the letter M. Instead a B would be substituted, with unfortunately comic results. However, having advanced to confront Sir Julian at close quarters, Randal had no intention of immediately performing a craven retreat, so he stood his ground. “We bust talk, Richardson, whether you like it or not.”

  Bust talk? Sir Julian looked at him in bewilderment. What was the matter with the fellow?

  Randal went on. “As you are…er, paterfabilias, so to speak, I ab here to seek your blessing.” Damn that confounded feline!

  Sir Julian became very still. “Paterfamilias?” he repeated cautiously.

  “Yes. There is good news frob Constantinople. I ab to be barried to your niece. I refer to Abanda, of course, not Tansy, for it wouldn’t do to ally byself to the penurious branch of the fabily.” Randal tried to maintain his dignity, even though he knew how silly he sounded. In one thing he had definitely not been silly, however, and that was his choice of bride. Of Sir Julian’s two brothers, it was Franklyn not Bertram who married into wealth; therefore it was Franklyn’s daughter who was the great heiress.

  Sir Julian was both bemused by Randal’s sudden speech impediment and dismayed by the news he imparted. “Marry Amanda? You’re lying! My brother Franklyn wouldn’t—”

  “Oh, but he would. Your tarnished reputation as an antiquarian beans little when his daughter has the chance to be Lady Sanderby, Oh, dab that cat!”

  Sir Julian suddenly realized that Ozzy was the cause of Randal’s speech problems. The new Earl of Sanderby wasn’t afraid of cats; he was excessively sensitive to their fur!

  Randal’s eyes ran with tears, which he mopped with a large handkerchief as he continued. “Abanda herself is very anxious to proceed with the batch. You see, I have been low enough to secretly correspond with her. I write a very passionate letter, very passionate indeed, and she is very spoiled, vain, and, er, gullible.”

  Shocked, Sir Julian gazed at the younger man in disgust. “You are base, sir, base beyond belief!”

  It was water off this duck’s back. “Abanda is quite a beauty,” Randal said, taking an oval miniature from his pocket, and glancing down at the golden-haired lovely smiling from it.

  Sir Julian was goaded. “If you think I’m going to stand by and—”

  Randal interrupted. “And what? There’s nothing you can do about it! I ab at liberty to barry where I please, and by bride is bore than willing.” He sneezed again before putting the miniature away. Then he raised a slender finger to the barrel of the pistol and turned it safely aside. “Oh, don’t think I ab barrying Abanda entirely out of spite, for I ab not. She suits because she is pretty and will bake be even bore wealthy. The fact that she is your niece is but the jewel in the crown. Dear brother Franklyn has agreed to everything. The barriage contract is signed and sealed, and when he leaves Constantinople for his new post in Australia, he is quite happy for Abanda and Tansy to sail for England in the care of a chaperone. When they arrive—always assubing they do, of course, there being such hazards as pirates, storbs, shipwrecks, and even the French—he wishes theb to reside here with you until the wedding. He is engagingly sure that your pleasure for Abanda will outweigh your personal antipathy toward by fabily. By the way, she is woefully vain and indiscreet.”

  “I’ll see you in Hades before I let you marry my flesh and blood!” Sir Julian cried, so bitterly angry that his voice broke.

  Ozzy was provoked beyond endurance. With a horrible yowl, he again leaped down from his chair to march upon the unwelcome intruder. Randal snatched the pistol from Sir Julian, turned it upon the tomcat, and squeezed the trigger.

  Chapter 2

  But there was only a hollow click when Randal fired the pistol at Ozymandias. It wasn’t loaded! Sir Julian smiled. “An old man’s foolishness, I’m afraid,” he murmured.

  “Dab you, Richardson!” The pistol was flung away.

  “Oh, I’ve been damned for quite a long time now, Sanderby.” Ever since your mother decided to stay with your father, in spite of his crimes. Sir Julian turned to Ozzy. “Come here to me, you foolish old boy,” he coaxed.

  The tomcat obeyed, leaping up to the desk beside Randal, who jerked back out of the way as if splashed with boiling oil. He couldn’t evade the fur that floated invisibly in the air, and sneezed again anyway. Sir Julian immediately evinced concern. “Oh, dear, have you caught a cold? It’s the Dorset air, you know, especially at this time of year.”

  “Don’t bake the bistake of bocking me, Richardson!” Randal snapped, at the same time blowing his nose like a trumpet. Ozzy sat facing him, paws neatly together, ginger tail curled around them. He squeezed his big amber eyes, pleased with the effect he had.

  Randal gazed at Sir Julian through a shimmer of tears. “I ab going to barry Abanda, and there is nothing you can do about it. Perhaps you should regard it as a chance to bake abends for the bonstrous accusations you hurled at by father when your idiotic theories about hieroglyphs were set before the Society of Antiquaries.”

  Sir Julian regarded him across the candle flame. “They were not my theories. Your father presented them as mine, after destroying all my work.”

  “I ab shocked that you should speak ill of the dead. Ah, but we bust not forget that the rift between you and my father concerned far bore than a bisunderstanding between brother philoaegyptians. It involved by dear baba’s adventures outside the barital bed. She was your bistress, was she not, Richardson?”

  Sir Julian’s heart sank, but outwardly he remained composed. If it was the last thing he did, he would protect Felice’s good name. “What on earth are you talking about?” he inquired, feigning complete bewilderment.

  Randal smiled again. “Bethinks you know exactly what I ab talking about.”

  “Your mother, God rest her lovely soul, was not my mistress, nor indeed any man’s mistress.” Sir Julian met Randal’s eyes squarely and stroked Ozzy, who began to purr.

  “Liar,” Randal breathed.

  Sir Julian coolly changed the subject. “Sanderby, my niece Amanda may be beautiful, and an heiress, but you obviously feel nothing for her. If you had an ounce of decency, you’d withdraw from this shabby contract right now.”

  Randal blew his nose again, then sniffed. “And who, pray, are you to lecture be on decency? Don’t think you can deflect be from by purpose, because no abount of denial will alter the fact that by adulterous baba adorned your bed.”

  “You are wrong, but it is your prerogative to think as you please.”

  “I think a great deal where you are concerned, Richardson. You oppose by barriage to Abanda for purely personal reasons. After all, she will hardly be baking a bisalliance, will she?”

  “Any alliance with the Fenworths is a misalliance.” And never more so than if you are the bridegroom, came Sir Julian’s added thought, which he kept to himself.

  Randal spread his hand, seeming the picture of innocence. “Why? Ab I or ab I not one of the forebost earls in the land?” But in spite of the apparent absence of guile in his voice, his red-rimmed eyes were fixed upon Sir Julian, watching, waiting, alert.

  “Oh, I’m well aware of your lofty title and its ancient lineage; make no mistake of that! My family only descends from a successful Bristol merchant who flourished early last century; you, however, can name your noble ancestors as far back as Crecy. Or so I believe the story goes.”

  “Oh, the story goes, Richardson, the story goes.” Randal felt the onset of another bout of sneezing. Dear God, why couldn’t the old fool have had a dog?

  Sir Julian stopped stroking Ozzy. “Look, Sanderby, I don’t know exactly what your purpose is in all this. A note would have
sufficed to tell me your so-called good news.”

  “A note? Ah, yes, the power of the written word.” Randal gave a thin smile to see the mask that was Sir Julian’s face. “I can see in your eyes that it is true about you and baba. Oh, the ghosts that are with us now, eh?”

  Ghosts indeed, Sir Julian thought. Esmond had died in a duel with a man he tried to cheat at cards; Felice, so adored by her lover, so held in contempt by her so-called husband, had died alone of influenza at Sanderby Park in Westmorland. Sir Julian managed to hold back his tears. “Who told you this fairy tale about your mother and me?”

  “By father left a diary, which I have only recently discovered. It was in very poor condition, and in light of its contents, you bay be sure I have been careful to destroy it.”

  Ozzy ventured to growl again, then paused in anticipation of his master’s tapping finger on the top of his head. When none came, he continued to growl, curling his lips back to show a fine set of needle-sharp teeth.

  Sir Julian gave a short laugh. “Well, I do not doubt that any journal composed by your father contained as much pure fiction as the theories he pretended were mine.”

  Randal’s watering eyes were reptilian. “Have done with the pretence, Richardson, for I ab not gulled. She is long gone and cannot suffer now. We are alone; so what possible harb can it do to confess the truth?”

  “Only someone who is not a gentleman could express such a view.” But even as he spoke, Julian knew that his own gentlemanly conduct did not extend indefinitely. Felice, beloved as she was, was in fact his second consideration; the first was, and always would be, a young man whose whereabouts remained as much a mystery now as it had all those years ago. Did Randal also know about him?

  Randal’s gimlet gaze remained fixed upon him, “Well, I suppose dear Abanda bust weigh your conscience a little. It wouldn’t do for society to snicker because the bride’s uncle once had a passionate affair with the bridegroob’s bother.”