A Stroke of Luck (8 page)

Almost of its own accord, a blunt question slipped out from her lips. "You have unusual hands. Pray, where did you acquire such a dexterous touch?"

The tip of the spade hovered in mid-air for a moment, then slowly lowered to earth. "I play the pianoforte." His expression seemed to challenge her to laugh.

Music?
Although she possessed only a rudimentary talent of her own, she admired all forms of the art, from the stirring chords of a symphony to the lilting notes of a sonata. "What sort of music do you favor?" she asked, the lump of sod in her hands forgotten. "The harmonious precision of Haydn? The cerebral symmetry of Mozart? Or the more untamed emotions of Beethoven?"

He looked at her as if she had been speaking in Cantonese. "Y—you are familiar with the nuances of such composers?"

"You may find it difficult to countenance, sir, but we were not raised as wild savages," she replied tartly.

"I—I meant no offense. It's just that it is rare to encounter anyone who actually knows the difference between a fugue and a fandango."

"Surely even someone tone deaf could differentiate between those two," quipped Zara with a faint smile.

"You would be surprised." She was gratified to note that his voice held the same dry note of humor as her own. "I have friends—intelligent friends—who would swear that an aria from Purcell's
The Fairy Queen
could be sung by the chickens in a barnyard."

The wry comment actually made her laugh. "Well, I do not claim to understand the nuances of opera, sir, but I am tolerably well-versed in the works of the German composers, for I prefer their works above all others."

"Indeed?" Again, his expression betrayed how unexpected her words were. But mingled with the surprise was an unmistakable enthusiasm that, in an instant, transformed his whole face. His jaw relaxed, his eyes lightened and his mouth was no longer set in a grim line. "I, too, feel they have been creating the most interesting compositions, at least for the past half century. One must, of course, give Haydn credit for his profound influences on modern music. He changed the way we listen to symphonies by bringing a certain order to chaos. However, I find I prefer the unbridled emotion of Beethoven, though, to be sure, he is not to everyone's taste."

"Oh, how can one not respond to such a powerful expression of feeling? His music is so individual, so poetic!" Finding it impossible to contain her own enthusiasm on the subject, she rushed on. "As for Haydn, you are not of the same opinion as Goethe, who said that his works are the ideal language of truth... "

Swept up in the exchange of ideas, Zara was unaware of how long the discussion had lasted until Perry tapped her on the elbow. Looking up, she saw that Nonny was leaning on his spade, regarding her with a quizzical look, while her younger brother was trying to steady the mountain of peat that was now looming above the sides of the barrow.

"Come, why are we all standing around wasting time?" she snapped brusquely, brought back to earth by the sight of the precarious pile. Disappointment at having the lively interchange of ideas come so suddenly to an end caused her tone to turn more brittle. "We can't afford to dally in idle conversation, not if we are to get the job done. Stump, perhaps you could take one handle and help me wheel the barrow to the shed while Perry takes your place tracing out more bricks of the peat."

"It is my fault for distracting you," murmured the duke. His spade flashed through the air. "Here, let me get back to work."

Distracting, indeed!
Zara found herself watching the play of taut muscle through the thin fabric of his shirt. The show of strength was a subtle rippling rather than a beefy flex, and once again she realized that the appearance of his lithe frame, like much about the rest of him, deceptive—it was not nearly so undeveloped as she had supposed at first.

"Don't be dallying, Nonny," she said, though the mumbled rebuke was meant more for herself than her sibling. Ducking her head, she grabbed hold of the barrow handles as if they might afford her some grip on her wayward thoughts. As if in concert with such sentiments, a warning note reverberated in her head. What in the name of Hades was she doing, discussing such dangerous topics as passion and emotion with a total stranger?

Zara Greeley was pragmatic, not passionate, she sighed. She really couldn't afford to be anything else, not with all the responsibilities that had fallen upon her shoulders. With an inward sigh and a heave of her knees, she helped the duke's valet set the wooden wheel to bouncing over the mud and rocks.

Clack, clack, clack.

The staccato sounds were a loud reminder of the down-to-earth reality of her situation. Still, at times, she couldn't help indulging in a symphony of girlish fantasies—what it would be like to dance to the heady melody of a Viennese waltz, to wear frothy silk ball gowns and smile at smitten suitors.

If.
If her father had possessed a modicum of common sense to go along with his adventurous spirit. If her grandmother had not been a spiteful dragon. If her distant relatives had not ignored her urgent appeals...

And if pigs could fly
, she reminded herself harshly. "Ifs" would not purchase their passage back to England, or pay for a loaf of bread and a roof over their heads. So she had better keep marching to a steady drumbeat rather than think of twirling in air to an imaginary orchestra.

* * *

Prestwick listened to the heavy thud of her steps retreating down the rutted path. A light fog had wafted in from the bay, obscuring the surrounding dunes in a mizzle of mist, and he found himself thinking that the young lady was equally difficult to make out. He had come to expect sharp sarcasm and heated harangues, so the last thing he had anticipated hearing from her lips was a learned discourse on the differences between Haydn and Beethoven. How had a raw country chit and her brothers come to possess such erudite knowledge?

In spite of his resolve to keep his thoughts from straying in her direction, he could not help but be intrigued.

Glancing up at the lad working by his side, the duke decided to see what more he might be able to discover about this strange family. "Perry is short for Perseus, is it? That's a rather unusual choice of names."

"My father was an ardent admirer of ancient Greek civilization." The youngest Greeley shot a quick grin at his brother. "At least I was named after a hero and not a hunk of stone."

Seeing the lift of Prestwick's brow, Nonny sighed and explained, "Nonny is short for Parthenon. Parthenon Pericles."

Amused at the irony of two muddy scamps bearing such classical monikers, the duke inclined a bow. "I am pleased to make your formal acquaintance, Perseus Agamemnon and Parthenon Pericles." He couldn't resist adding a flowery salutation from
The Iliad
.

Both lads looked amazed.

"Y—you are conversant with Homer in the original tongue?" exclaimed Perry in flawless Greek.

It occurred to the duke that he should be the one evincing surprise. Masking a chuckle with a wry cough, he replied, "And Socrates, Sophocles, Plato, as well as Aristophanes and Euripides."

Perry's face took on a wistful twist. "Papa was extremely well-versed in the classics. He was just beginning to read
Oedipus Rex
with me before the fever carried him and Mama off."

"You enjoyed such scholarly study?" asked Prestwick. He had always thought he had been the only lad in the entire universe who picked up a work of Latin or Greek by choice.

"Oh, very much sir. I have tried to carry on by myself, but it is hard going. Zara is always willing to help, but I do not like to ask too often, since she has so much else to occupy her thoughts." The scrunch of earlier hostility faded from the lad's face, replaced by a shy hopefulness. "I—I don't suppose you would be able answer a question or two regarding... "

The duke listened carefully, then took the time to give a detailed explanation.

The attention chased away the last vestige of reserve. Jeers and insults were forgotten as the lad peppered him with a barrage of further queries. Prestwick found such enthusiasm endearing. Indeed, Perry reminded him of a lively puppy, nearly tripping all over himself in his eagerness to discuss complexities of grammar and nuances of meaning. A bit of gentle probing revealed that the lad dearly missed his lessons, and was bursting with all manner of questions. Intelligent ones, too, for someone so young.

With great patience, he plowed through every last query, managing to acquit himself rather well, he decided, judging by the reaction his audience.

When he finally finished explaining the meaning of a particularly difficult passage from
The Odyssey
, Perry looked at him with something akin to awe. "You seem to possess a prodigious amount of knowledge on the subject, sir."

A small smile played on his lips. "Most gentlemen are required to study the classics."

"But Zara holds that most gentlemen are too busy engaged in other pursuits to pay any attention to their books," interjected Nonny. "She says that is why they are, for the most part, ignorant louts who haven't a thought for aught but their own selfish pleasures."

"Why would she say that?" murmured the duke, wondering just how she had acquired such a jaundiced view of society.

"Most likely because the English gentlemen we met on our journey back from Greece were driveling dastards," came the taut reply. "The few times she ventured to ask counsel, thinking a fellow countryman might offer some help, she met with naught but slurred insults and groping hands." Nonny's face darkened. "And there wasn't a damned thing we could do about it, for she wouldn't allow us to call out the scoundrels. Said we couldn't afford to stir up trouble."

Prestwick tried to think of what it must have been like for three young people to make the long, arduous journey back from such distant shores, with meager funds and no one to turn to for guidance. After a moment, he realized that it was beyond the powers of his imagination.

"It must have been a... trying experience," he said rather lamely, feeling the inadequacy of such a trite platitude.

"At times," admitted Nonny. "In Sicily, we were nearly cheated out of the passage we had paid for, but Zara had thought to keep an eye on the captain and got us on board before the dastard could slip away. Then, there were several occasions where we had to quit our lodgings in the middle of the night to avoid an... unpleasant incident with one of the other guests, even though it meant being out on the streets."

The duke's mouth compressed in a grim line. He had no trouble comprehending what sort of unpleasantness the lad was referring to.

"And then, of course, there was the letter from Papa's man of affairs," piped up Perry. "Once we landed in Plymouth, she wrote for assistance, only to be told that our relatives were refusing to acknowledge our claim to the inheritance that is rightfully due us. And given our lack of funds and lack of influence, he is not overly keen to press our suit."

Feeling a sudden surge of anger toward anyone who would want to cheat these intrepid young people, Prestwick thrust the spade into the damp earth with a touch of added force. "So you have been forced to abandon your claim?"

"Ha! Not a snowball's chance in hell of that!" Nonny gave a wry grin. "Zara isn't about to give in without a fight. That is why we are making this trip, so that we may confront the lot of them in person."

Doing his best to repress a rueful crook of his lips, he gave silent thanks to Zeus and the pantheon of lesser gods that he was not going to be the one standing in the way when the Admiral of the Amazons sailed through the door! The twitch of humor was gone in an instant, for despite his own opinion on hot-tempered, headstrong females, he could not help but admire her courage under fire.

"A gentleman of my position is not without some influence in Society," he said after a slight pause. "Perhaps when I return to Town, I can have one of my legal experts look into the matter."

Nonny's boot nudged at the clump of peat he had just cut out. "I am not sure if Zara would allow it. She says a favor always requires some sort of payback. And most of the time, it is not worth the asking price."

"For a lady of tender years, it appears your sister has an awfully cynical view of mankind."

"She would call it being pragmatic, sir." Nonny sighed. "She says we must always be on our guard if we wish to survive."

"Aye." chimed Perry. "And she would not like it at all that you call her tender. She says that despite her appearance, her skin is tougher than armor, and people make a big mistake in assuming otherwise."

As there was little he could say in argument to that, Prestwick let the matter drop and shoveled on in silence. It seemed the martial Miss Greeley had good reason for her sharp tongue and steely demeanor.

He owed her a debt of thanks, he reminded himself, which he intended to pay off quite handsomely. But other than that, her welfare was not his responsibility. Yet for some odd reason, the realization made him rather sad.

Chapter 5