Nicholas: The Lords of Satyr Read Free Page B

He gave them a polite nod. “Lord and Lady Hillbrook. Signore Rossini, Signora Rossini.”
    Today’s event had been organized at Lord Hillbrook’s instigation. Wealthy Englishmen such as he commonly wintered in Italy, often sojourning well into spring to escape England’s chill. But the first hint of Italy’s infamous summer heat always saw them scurrying homeward.
    “Unusual to see you at one of our little occasions,” Lord Hillbrook enthused. He stroked his profuse side-whiskers, which pointed in a dozen directions as though uncertain of the direction his conversation might go. “Honored to have you.”
    “I don’t visit Tivoli as often as I might like. But as I happened to be here, I wouldn’t miss one of your functions,” Nick commented affably. “’Tis a credit to its hostess.”
    Lady Hillbrook preened under his praise. “You Italians are so temperate in your weather. In England it would be difficult to hold an open-air event this time of year, fearing rain.”
    “Ah, but there can be such a thing as too much sunshine. Our vines welcome the occasional spring shower,” said Nick. “Too little rain makes for puny grapes.”
    “Speaking of which, you haven’t forgotten we’re in for fifty cases at the auction this autumn,” Signora Rossini reminded him. Though it was warm, she wore a tight-laced crimson gown that was making a heroic effort to cinch her ungainly proportions into some semblance of an hourglass shape. Perspiration dotted her upper lip and brow, and she occasionally mopped it with a monogrammed handkerchief.
    Lady Hillbrook discreetly nudged her husband with a satin-covered elbow.
    “One hundred cases here,” Lord Hillbrook was prompted to add.
    “Sending for it on the sly as usual?” Signore Rossini asked.
    Hillbrook nodded, rocking on his heels. “English laws are quite set against sales of the bottled stuff, you know. The practice of selling it by the measure continues, so we’re forced to purchase on the sly or become bottlers if we’re to drink.”
    He moved his walking stick toward Nick’s calf as though to nudge him conspiratorially. He wisely thought better of it and merely asked, “I suppose you’ll be asking an obscene amount for your vintage this year, eh? Yours seem to be the only vines spared from the current blight.”
    Nick tensed. “We’ve been fortunate in that we’ve seen no signs of it so far.”
    “’Tis said every field in Europe has been affected by the pox. Some devastated,” said Signore Rossini. “And no cure in sight. I understand no one is even certain of its cause.”
    “The matter of the blight has naturally been of great concern to my family. As I said, we count ourselves fortunate that so far our fields remain unaffected,” Nick replied coolly.
    “Odd, that,” mused Lord Hillbrook.
    “Scusi?” Nick turned his full attention on the gentleman, who promptly withered under his piercing stare.
    Satyr lands were protected by the ElseWorldly powers he and his brother interlaced around them. Therefore, their vines hadn’t been afflicted thus far with the dark spots that had begun to appear on the vines of nearly every other vineyard in Europe. He’d known it was only a matter of time before Humans began to speculate on the reason his fields had been spared.
    “I say, meant nothing by it,” said Hillbrook, flushing to match Signora Rossini’s gown. “Everyone knows the Satyr label is impeccable. Nothing odd at all, really. No doubt it’s simple dumb luck, er—”
    His wife frowned and shook her head, causing his words to dwindle away.
    “I assure you dumb luck isn’t what protects us,” said Nick. “While the blight persists, every precaution has been undertaken to protect our grapes from its ravages. It’s difficult to know how to limit exposure, since its cause remains unclear. However, we limit access to our vineyard and take care that contaminants are kept out.”
    Signora Rossini leapt into the awkward silence that fell.