Amanda Scott Read Free

pushing an errant strand of copper-colored hair out of her face with one hand and smiling at him with satisfaction as she held up a clump of collected dust in the other. “Only listen to the difference now, doubter.” But as she turned toward the stool, movement in the open doorway caused her to glance that way.
    Her husband stood upon the threshold.
    “Ned!” Her hazel eyes lit briefly with pleasure, but the look was quickly replaced by wariness when she noted his angry expression. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, stepping instinctively in front of Sydney, who regarded Ramsbury over her shoulder with visibly dawning awareness of his identity.
    Glaring at him, Ramsbury snapped, “Your porter told me I should surprise you if I came straight up, Sybilla, and I see he was in the right of it. What the devil is that painted puppy doing here alone with you?”
    “Mr. Saint-Denis,” she said calmly, “is not a painted puppy, and he was helping me fix the pianoforte. One of the keys was making a thumping noise instead of sounding its proper note.”
    “There are persons, I believe, who attend to that sort of thing for a living,” Ramsbury pointed out. “This fribble can know nothing about it, in any case.”
    Sydney straightened to his full height, which was not much less than Ramsbury’s six feet plus, and made a minute adjustment to his high, well-starched neckcloth with the tip of one slender finger. “I collect that you are Ramsbury, sir, and I daresay that my presence here does not look well to you, but I can assure you that I am neither fribble nor puppy, painted or otherwise. Nor, of course, can I claim to know a thing about repairing musical instruments, but as you see, my skill was needed for nothing more difficult than to prevent the lid from falling upon your ever-capable lady while she attended to the problem.”
    Then, although Ramsbury’s lips tightened ominously, Mr. Saint-Denis stepped past Sybilla, extracting a metal-veneered snuffbox inlaid with gold from the pocket of his colorfully embroidered waistcoat. Holding the box out, he flicked the lid open with a neat, well-practiced gesture. “Two compartments, my lord, as you see, so that you may take your choice. Fine on the right and coarse on the left. The same mixture, of course, and—as I need hardly say—unscented.”
    With a sound like a snarl, Ramsbury took a step toward him, but again Sybilla slipped between them, lifting her chin to glare up at her husband, who was some six or seven inches taller than she.
    While Ramsbury glowered back at her, Sydney said plaintively over her shoulder, “ ’Tis very good snuff—a little hobby of mine, you know. Learned all about it when I visited China two years ago. Fascinating business. I grate the Morocco myself, and I promise you, I take very good care of all my snuff. Never allow it to become dry or to get too close to another mixture that might taint the essence or …” His voice trailed away to silence when the others paid him no heed.
    Ramsbury, still glaring at Sybilla, appeared not to have heard him at all, but Sybilla turned and patted his shoulder. “Never mind, Sydney. Do not heed his bad manners or his temper, I beg you. Ramsbury only looks as though he eats people. He never really does so. He will be leaving soon, in any event, and then we may be comfortable again. And,” she added, turning back to her husband, “there is no use looking at me as though you would like to strangle me, Ned, because that look has never impressed me as much as it seems to impress others. Indeed, it has always seemed a great pity to me that you lacked an older sister to smack you from time to time when you were young.”
    “I doubt that she would have been allowed to smack me,” he said, rising to the bait as he always seemed to do with her.
    “No, that is very true. You were always petted, were you not, just because you were the heir. Poor Charlie, though he occupies the same position in our