He sipped his wine and considered his lady wife, smiling vaguely at something Mrs. Flowers leaned close to say. Perhaps the company of newly met people intimidated Melisande. He knew she was a shy creature, as all the fey were wont to be. She didn’t like crowds, didn’t like long social events. It was opposite to Jasper’s own nature, but he understood this about her, even if he could never feel that way himself. He was used to her stiff reticence when they went out.
neight="0%" width="4%">But this unease was more than that. Something was wrong, and it bothered him that he didn’t know what.
It was a pleasant gathering. Aunt Esther’s cook was very good, and the supper was plain but enjoyable. The narrow dining room was intimately lit. The footmen were generous with the wine bottles.Miss Stewart was to his right. She was a woman of mature years, with powdered and rouged cheeks and an enormous gray-powdered wig. She leaned toward Jasper, and he caught the strong scent of patchouli.
“I hear you’ve just come from London, what?” the lady said.
“Indeed, ma’am,” Jasper replied. “Over hill and over dale we’ve ridden, just to visit sunny Edinburgh.”
“Well, at least you didn’t come in winter,” she retorted somewhat obscurely. “Travel’s dreadful after the first snowfall, though the city’s pretty enough—all the snow cloaking the dirt and soot. Have you seen the castle?”
“Alas, no.”
“You should, you should.” Miss Stewart nodded vigorously, making the wattles beneath her chin shake. “Magnificent. Not many English appreciate the beauty of Scotland.”
She fixed him with a gimlet eye.
Jasper hastily swallowed a bite of the very fine lamb his aunt had served. “Oh, quite. My lady wife and I have been stunned by the countryside thus far.”
“And so you should be in my opinion.” She sawed at her lamb. “Now, the Holdens moved here from London some eight or ten years ago, and they haven’t regretted it for a day. Have you, Mr. Holden?” she appealed to the gentleman sitting across the table from her.
Timothy Holden was strikingly handsome if one liked men with soft cheeks and red lips, which apparently most women did, judging from the feminine glances aimed his way. He wore a snowy white wig and a red velvet coat, worked in gold and green embroidery at the sleeves.
At Miss Stewart’s question, Holden inclined his head and said, “My wife and I enjoy Edinburgh.”
He glanced down the table, but oddly it wasn’t his own wife he looked at but rather Jasper’s.
Jasper sipped his wine, his eyes narrowed.
“The society here is quite superior,” Lady Caroline chimed in.
She looked to be a good deal older than her handsome husband and was titled to boot. There must lie a tale. She had blond hair so light it was nearly white, and pale pinkish skin that made her as nearly monochromatic as paper. Only her light blue eyes gave her any color, poor woman, and they looked rimmed in red against her colorless skin, giving her the appearance of a white rabbit.
“The garden is lovely this time of year,” she said. “Perhaps you and Lady Vale will honor us by coming to tea during your visit?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Jasper saw Melisande go still. She was so motionless he wondered if she breathed.
He smiled po {">Hionlitely. “I’m devastated to decline your kind offer. I’m afraid we stay only the night in Edinburgh. I have business with a friend who lives north of here.”
“Oh, yes? Who is that?” Miss Stewart inquired.
Melisande had relaxed again, so Jasper turned his attention to his neighbor. “Sir Alistair Munroe. Do you know him?”
Miss Stewart shook her head decisively. “Know of him, of course, but never met the man, more’s the pity.”
“A wonderful book he’s written,” Sir Angus rumbled from the far end of the table. “Simply marvelous. Filled with all manner of birds, animals, fishes, and insects. Most instructional.”
“But have you ever met the man?” Aunt Esther demanded from the foot of the table.
“Can’t say that I have.”
“There!” Mrs. Whippering sat back triumphantly. “And I don’t know a single person who has—save for you, dear nephew, and I don’t think you’ve seen him in years, have you?”
Jasper shook his head somberly. It was his turn to stare at the table and twist his wineglass.
“Well, how do we know he’s even still alive?” Aunt Esther asked.
“I’ve heard he sends letters to the university,” Mrs. Flowers ventured from his left. “I have an uncle who lectures there, and he says Sir Alistair is very well respected.”
“Munroe is one of Scotland’s great intellectuals,” Sir Angus said.
“Be that as it may,” Aunt Esther said, “I don’t know why he doesn’t show his face here in town. I know that people have invited him to dinners and balls, and he always declines. What is he hiding, I ask you?”
“Scars,” Sir Angus rumbled.
“Oh, but surely that’s just a rumor,” Lady Caroline said.
Mrs. Flowers leaned forward, putting her ample bosom perilously near the gravy on her plate. “I’ve heard his face is so terribly scarred from the war in America that he has to wear a mask so that people don’t faint in horror.”
“Poppycock!” Miss Stewart snorted.
“It’s true,” Mrs. Flowers defended herself. “My sister’s neighbor’s daughter caught a glimpse of Sir Alistair leaving the theater two years ago and swooned. Afterward she took to bed with a delirious fever and wasn’t well for months.”
“She sounds a very silly girl,” Miss Stewart retorted, “and I’m not sure I believe a word of it.”
Mrs. Flowers drew herself up, obviously offended.
Aunt Esther intervened. “Well, my nephew ought to know whether or not Sir Alistair is horribly scarred. He served with the man, after all. Jasper?”
Jasper felt his fingers begin to shake—an awful physical symptom of the rotting malaise within himself. He let go of his wineglass before he knocked it ove {kno shr and hastily hid his hand beneath the tablecloth.
“Jasper?” his aunt repeated.
Damn it, they were all looking at him now. His throat was dry, but he couldn’t raise his glass of wine.
“Yes,” he finally said. “Yes, it’s true. Sir Alistair Munroe is scarred.”