Chapter Five
Well, Longsword did not like this turn of events one wit, but a bargain once struck with the Goblin King is very hard to break. Thus he was compelled to work for the Goblin King, and that is a dirty job, indeed; I can tell you! He never saw the sun, he never heard laughter, and he never felt a cool breeze against his cheek, for the Goblin Kingdom, as you may have heard, is a horrible place. But the worst part for Longsword was the knowledge that the master he served and the things he did were an affront to God and Heaven itself.
Because of this, every year Longsword would go to his master, lower himself to one knee, and beg to be relieved of his horrible servitude.
And every year the Goblin King refused to let Longsword go….
—from Longsword
“Ridiculous that I can’t touch any of the Blanchard monies,” Reynaud growled a day later. He paced the little sitting room from fireplace to window, feeling like a wild wolf caged. “How am I to pay my lawyers without funds?”
“You can hardly blame Uncle Reggie for being reluctant to pay for his own ouster,” Miss Corning said. She sat serenely by the small fire, sipping some of her infernal tea.
“Ha! If he thinks that’ll stop me, he’ll be sorely disappointed,” Reynaud retorted. “I have a petition before parliament to form a special committee to look into my case.”
Miss Corning set her teacup down carefully. “Already? I had no idea.”
Reynaud snorted. “If it were tomorrow, it’d not be soon enough for me. Once I prove my identity, they cannot keep the title from me.”
Miss Corning frowned, fiddling with her teacup.
Reynaud’s brows snapped together. “You don’t believe me?”
“It’s just… What if . . .” She shook her head slowly.
“What if what?”
“What if he says that you are mad?” she asked all in a rush, and looked up at him.
Reynaud stared. Insanity was one of the few reasons a man might be passed over for a title. “Do you have information that he will?”
“It was just something he said in passing.” She ducked her head, hiding her gray eyes from him.
Reynaud scowled, wondering what her uncle had actually said. He felt cold sweat start at the small of his back. You’ll never be a proper Englishman again, the goblins in his mind chittered. You’ll never belong. Reynaud balled his hands, fighting the voices.
“Do you feel well?” Miss Corning asked.
“Fine,” Reynaud snapped. “I’m fine.”
Her gray eyes looked troubled. “Perhaps if I talk to Uncle Reggie, he’d be willing to lend you some of his money for new clothes and such.”
“My money,” Reynaud growled.
She was throwing him a bone, and they both knew it. Damn her uncle to hell. He parted the curtain to peer out. Three stories below, a carriage lurked in front of the town house. Probably one of St. Aubyn’s political allies come to call.
“Yes, well, your money or Uncle Reggie’s money, the fact remains that he is the one in control of it,” Miss Corning observed. “It wouldn’t hurt your case to be more civil to him, especially since you’re staying in his house.”
“My house. I have every right to live in my house, and I’ll be damned before I crawl to that man.” Reynaud let the curtain drop.
Miss Corning rolled her eyes. “I didn’t say crawl, I said be more—”
“Civil, I know.” He stalked toward her. She was looking remarkably pretty this morning in a green frock that offset the pale rose of her cheeks and made her eyes sparkle like diamonds. “The only one I’m interested in being ‘civil’ to is you.”
She paused, her tea dish halfway to her lips, and eyed him warily. Good. She took him far too much for granted as it was. They were in a room alone, for God’s sake, and he’d spent the last seven years in a society where the relations between a man and a woman were much more fundamental. In fact—
But his thoughts were interrupted by a footman appearing at the door. “You have a visitor, my lord.”
And the man stepped aside to reveal a vision. An elderly lady stood there, her back ramrod straight, her snowy white hair pulled into a severe knot at the crown of her head, her piercing blue eyes already narrowed in disapproval. Reynaud hadn’t seen her in seven years, and for a moment he feared he would lose his self-possession. He knew tears—awful unmanly tears—were near the surface.
Then she spoke. “Tiens! Such an ’orrible growth of ’air upon your face, nephew! I am quite repulsed. Is this, then, what gentlemen in the Colonies wear? I do not believe it; no, I do not!”
He went to her and took her hands, kissing her tenderly on the cheek despite her mutter of disgust. “I am glad to see you, Tante Cristelle.”
“Tcha! I do not think you can see at all with this ’air.” She reached a blue-veined hand to brush the hair falling into his face. Her touch, unlike her words, was gentle. Then her hand dropped. “And who is this child here? Have you lost so much of civilization that you closet yourself alone with a female in a respectable house?”
Reynaud turned, amused, to see that Miss Corning had jumped up from her chair and was eyeing Tante Cristelle warily. “This is a cousin of mine, Miss Beatrice Corning. Miss Corning, my aunt, Miss Cristelle Molyneux.”
Miss Corning curtsied as Tante Cristelle employed her looking glass and said, “I do not remember a cousin called Corning in my sister’s family.”
“I’m Lord Blanchard’s niece,” Miss Corning said.
Tante Cristelle’s eyes darkened. “C’est ridicule! My nephew doesn’t have a niece, only a nephew, and he not yet ten years of age.”
Reynaud cleared his throat, feeling like laughing for the first time since he’d set foot on English soil. “She means the present Earl of Blanchard, Tante.”
The old lady sniffed. “The pretender to the title. I see.”
Miss Corning looked cautious. “Um… perhaps I can bring up some tea?”