“But how can I, Anthony? You know how my life is held in forfeit. I could lose my son if she discovers us.”
Anthony turned a compassionate gaze at her. “In the eyes of the law, you have already lost him, querida. When will you accept this? Anyway, did I say she would have to know? Liaisons are a national diversion here. In some circles they are even mandated. Are you not aware that one half of the ton is always cuckolding the other?”
As her eyes filled with tears, she shook her head.
“It is just not my way, Anthony.” She sighed deeply. “I was not raised to carry out the sort of life they lead here. I do not understand these people and I doubt that I could ever be capable of having a relationship outside of marriage vows. I couldn’t, could I? No, it is not in my upbringing, but I love him so very much. Oh, I don’t know what I should do! You understand this, as a Catholic, don’t you? I mean, would it not feel sinful?”
“Only if he is very skillful…”
It had taken only a moment then for Amanda to swat the back of Anthony’s head very, very hard.
Remembering, he shook his head and chuckled at his own witticism. “Only if he is very skillful,” he repeated to his reflection in the mirror. Very clever, Antonio, he complimented himself and smiled, once again at peace and happily looking forward to drinking his very expensive imported French brandy, eating an exquisite meal prepared by his very expensive French chef, and relaxing for hours in the arms of his latest paramour, due at any moment.
Life was, indeed, very good for Dr. Anthony Milagros.
As the valet adjusted the lapels of Anthony’s exquisite dinner jacket, his butler scratched discreetly at the dressing-room door. “Enter, Bascome.” Swirling a brandy snifter around several times, Anthony took his initial sip, savoring the sweet nectar as he regarded his butler’s visage in the mirror.
The ancient gentleman gazed back.
Anthony raised his eyebrows in question and waited. They remained staring silently at each other in the mirror for quite a few moments, the tottering butler apparently unable to vocalize. Anthony finally turned toward him and finished off his drink. “Well?”
“Your lordship…” Bascome appeared distressed.
“Yes, old friend,” he said patiently and with mild humor. “I know who I am. What is it you wish to say to me?” Anthony smiled warmly at this most beloved of servants and dear old confidant. “Out with it, please. Be courageous, man. Is there a problem with the salmon? Has the cook overdone some sauce again? What is today’s disaster? What?”
As he began to fuss with the cuffs of his shirt, adjusting their length until just the proper amount of lace peeked from the sleeve of his jacket, he suddenly groaned. “If it is the champagne ices, I am afraid you will have to deal with the wine steward yourself this time. He terrifies me.”
The butler grimaced, sadly shaking his head. “Your lordship,” he intoned again, “it is with great regret that I must inform you… there is a British officer here to see you.”
Anthony froze. “Sorry? What did you say?”
“A quite massive British officer, a colonel, I believe, wishes to see you. He is in a somewhat emotional state.” Bascome removed a large white handkerchief from his cuff to dab at his brow. “Truth be told, sir, this is the first Englishman I have seen in any emotion. It is an unnerving and ugly sight and— Mother of the Divine Savior, intercede for us— he has a sword on his side that he keeps touching and— God have mercy on our souls—I believe a pistol hidden within his uniform.” The elderly butler stuffed his sodden cloth back into his pocket and attempted to stand at full attention, his arthritic five-foot-five-inch aching frame poised for the defense of his master. He dropped his voice several octaves. “Shall I summon the constabulary?”
Anthony blinked for several moments as his extremities became numb. “ Merde… I will kill her one day. Ah, I have dreams, Bascome, oh yes, wonderful dreams of a world without my dearest Amanda. We will ship her remains to Greece. I have people there you know. No one would suspect.” He studied the terrified old man and reined in his rhetoric. “I go down directly. Please pour yourself a glass of brandy. You look as if you are about to have a seizure. Put your feet up, old friend, all will be fine.” He pointed to a chair, and when he was certain his butler was settled, he turned to contemplate his own certain death.
Chapter 11
“May I help you?” Fitzwilliam turned to see the familiar and elegant gentleman peering at him from the doorway. “Ah! Colonel Fitzwilliam, how good to see you again. It has been too long.” Despite voicing such welcoming pleasantries, however, Milagros did not approach him or extend his hand for greeting. Fitzwilliam was not displeased—it denied him the opportunity to encircle the good doctor’s throat with his hands.
“Yes, it has been a while, Doctor. I trust you are well.” Without waiting for an answer, Fitzwilliam continued. “I wonder if I could have a moment of your time.” Fitzwilliam absently rested his hand on his sword and had the satisfaction of seeing Milagros’s eyes nervously follow.
“Of course, Colonel. Please have a seat. My home is your home.” The gentleman sauntered into the room and motioned for Fitzwilliam to sit. He himself then sat at some distance away, crossing one leg over the other. “Can I have my butler provide you with anything, Colonel? Port? Brandy? Hostages?” He laughed anxiously, quickly quieting into a subdued cough, and then ended with a penitential throat clearing.
“This is not a pleasure call, Milagros.”
Resting his elbow on the chair arm, Anthony cupped his chin while he perused his visitor. “’More’s the pity,’” was his mumbled response.
Fitzwilliam had a fleeting impression that he was receiving a sort of sexual scrutiny from the man. He shook off this impression as hysteria or lack of sleep or gas. “I have come to discuss your relationship with Amanda Penrod.”
Anthony’s eyebrows rose momentarily. “My goodness, we are direct, aren’t we?” He cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I have been expecting you.” A hand went up to smooth his already perfect hair.
“If you have been expecting me, then you must know what I have come to discuss with you, gentleman to gentleman.”
“I have a fairly good idea.” Milagros settled back into his chair, slouching in an attitude of evidently benign indifference, while in reality, his heart pounded. His fingers pinched at his lower lip while he assessed his opponent. Suddenly he spoke. “Let me make this somewhat easier for you, Colonel.”
Fitzwilliam was confused. He had been prepared for mental and mortal combat; however, the man before him did not appear as one whose affections for another were being threatened or challenged. This man seemed totally indifferent to that situation. In fact, as the minutes ticked on, Fitzwilliam began to feel uneasy, anxious, exposed. He shifted uncomfortably, crossing his legs as Anthony’s gaze drifted downward, taking in all of his body, from his boyishly disheveled hair, the rumpled colonel’s uniform jacket that emphasized the muscled arms and large chest, then down to a perusal of the tree-trunk legs encased in his white uniform trousers, and his well-worn boots.
Milagros sighed and muttered something.
“I told Amanda you would come here.” He spoke in a very matter-of-fact manner, drumming his fingers on his chair arm. “I told her it was a ridiculous story, but as you may or may not know, she can often be very stubborn. Dios mio, to call her stubborn is an insult to mules.”
Fitzwilliam sank slowly onto the settee. “What in blazes are you talking about?” In total bewilderment, he watched as the doctor stood to pour out a brandy from the decanter next to him and then down it in one gulp. Richard waved off one for himself. Anthony shrugged, finished off that second one also and sat down, holding tightly onto his third drink.