When the Duke Returns(99)

It was perhaps unfortunate that the next visitor Honeydew ushered into the study was another stranger. “Monsieur Antoine-Joseph Peyre,” Honeydew announced.

Simeon had perfected a sympathetic smile, meant to defuse the frustration of those presenting bills older than their children. But Monsieur Peyre did not present himself with the abject mien of the duchy’s many creditors. He bowed with the poise of a man who enjoyed perfect self-confidence. He was attired in a coat of flaring orange, adorned with large buttons and embroidered with fleur-de-lis in silver thread. On straightening up, he pulled a small scent flacon from his pocket and sniffed loudly.

“Monsieur Peyre,” Simeon said, bowing. “How may I help you?”

Peyre lowered his eyes from the frieze-work surrounding the study and said, “The question, Your Grace, is not how you can help me, but how I can help you!” Without further ado, he began to stroll about the room, his open perfume bottle trailing a potent scent of flowers.

Simeon waited, suppressing a grin. Monsieur Peyre resembled nothing so much as a bright orange rooster, proud of his plumage and certain that his crowing alone made the sun rise. He felt rather less amused when it transpired that Peyre had arrived with nine plaster-workers in tow and fully expected to be working in Revels House for at least ten days, if not longer.

“It depends, of course, on how elaborate you would like the walls,” Peyre said airily. “In the duchess’s abode in Venice, the formal rooms are covered with a perfect fantasy of gilded plants, blossoms, and the like. It is—” he kissed his fingertips—“exquisite! But here we are in the English countryside, and one does not feel the same exuberance, the same delightful sparkle. I think perhaps a more classical look might suit. I see this room with pale panels…”

While Monsieur Peyre rattled on, Simeon brooded about Isidore summoning plaster-workers to redo his house without mentioning the fact to him.

“Your Grace,” Peyre announced, “I do not find an objectionable smell here.”

Simeon turned around to find that Peyre was recorking his little flacon of perfume. The bottle was surrounded by an absurdly elaborate golden cage worked with enamel flowers.

“The water closets have been repaired,” Simeon explained.

“The duchess’s missive warned me to be prepared for an odor,” Peyre said with a shudder. “I contemplated refusing her invitation. But—” he opened his eyes very wide—“who can refuse Her Grace anything?”

“Indeed,” Simeon said. Then he heard an echo of his mother’s sour tone in that word and softened it with a smile. “Please continue as you see fit, Monsieur Peyre. We have the utmost trust in your judgment.”

“Naturally,” Monsieur Peyre said. “Naturally!” But he was pleased.

He left in a cloud of perfume, and Simeon turned to sit down at his desk, paused, and looked through the window at the garden. He had left Isidore in the Dower House. A good proponent of the Middle Way would surrender his anger, perhaps running an extra mile or two. He would center himself in the universe, remember that anger is a force for evil and that the waters of the ages washed against the pebbles of eternity.

Simeon strode out the door and into the ballroom. Monsieur Peyre was in the center of a cluster of men, pointing to the frieze-work at the top of the room. He caught just a word or two, in French. The place would probably end up looking like Versailles, he thought.

He left through the ballroom door and headed for the Dower House. He would merely request that his wife consult with him before making large decisions to do with the house. Of course, he would remain civil. He would avoid anything akin to an argument.

Those predictions might have come true, if Simeon hadn’t been so angry. “The problem,” he said painstakingly, “is that you never think before you act.”

“Yes, I do!”

“You sent away all our furniture, never thinking where my mother would eat her nightly meal. You bought bolts of cloth from the village thief and paid him a small fortune to deliver them. You anointed a bad-tempered smith as the mayor. You nearly instigated a robbery and assault on my mother because you couldn’t wait five minutes for me to finish my letter.”

“That’s not—”

“You are irresponsible and heedless in your actions toward others,” he said steadily. “You are used to getting your way in all things—”

“So are you!”

“Be that as it may, you have constantly forced my hand.” She looked a bit white, and more than a bit angry, he noticed dispassionately. “I dislike having a wife who has no respect for my opinions.”