Death in Hellfire by Deryn Lake Page A

Irish title?”
    “Yes, my Lord,” John answered politely.
    “I see.” And Charles put a great deal of meaning into those two words.
    John found himself disliking the fellow, partly because he had ruined the green velvet coat of which the Apothecary had been particularly fond.
    “Are you feeling better?” he asked spitefully.
    “Than when?” said Arundel, peering down the length of his thinly sculpted nose.
    “Than yesterday, sir. I was the person who helped you to your room.” John smiled disarmingly.
    “Were you, by Jove? Then I owe you my heartfelt thanks.” Despite the warmth of the words Charles contrived to say them with a chill in his tone.
    John was just beginning to get annoyed when a footman threw open the door and intoned that dinner was served. At this Sarah, Lady Dashwood, accompanied by Coralie Clive appeared and were escorted in to dine by their husbands with the Apothecary following somewhat lamely behind.
    Once in the dining room, he was again struck by the beauty of the ceiling which carried a huge painting of the Triumph of Bacchus and Ariadne. Indeed the theme of the room was definitely bacchanalian and John, looking at the sideboard loaded with decanters, felt that he was in for a definite feast. Mentally he girded himself for the fray. His eye wandered to a plaster statue of the Venus de” Medici standing in a niche in the right-hand wall. She seemed to preside over the room and John could not help but contrast her voluptuous curves, scarcely concealed by her judiciously placed hands, with the flat and forbidding figure of Sir Francis’s wife, who sat looking grim as ever on her husband’s right. Coralie, on the other hand, looked beautiful, though greatly changed, in deepest red.
    John studied her. Her figure was much the same, perhaps an inch or so fuller, though still admirable. Her hair, black as midnight, had just a hint of frosting, yet her emerald eyes were clear and fresh despite the little lines round them. He looked at her hands, one toying with the stem of her wine glass, and was filled with a longing to hold one.
    She must have caught his gaze because she said with a certain amount of amusement, “And how was your father when you last saw him, Mr O’Hare?”
    He answered, with Sir Gabriel Kent in mind, “Still well despite his great age, thank you ma’am. He spends much time in reading these days but is most delighted when he is visited by my daughter.”
    Lady Dashwood looked up. “You have a daughter! I did not realise you were even married, sir.” She said the words like an accusation.
    “I was married some years ago, my Lady, but unfortunately my wife…died.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that,” she replied in her usual stiff way. But Coralie said in an undertone, “How unhappy you must have been.”
    “I was indeed, madam. I was wounded to the heart for more than one reason.”
    Sir Francis called from the end of the table. “Mr O’Hare, I’m sorry for your personal tragedy but we do not have sad people around us for long. So drink and be merry. I would like to propose a toast. To the Earl of Cavan and his many sons.”
    “I’ll drink to that and gladly,” John answered and rose to his feet as did the other men present.
    “And now,” said the host, beaming geniality, “let us eat.”
    It was an excellent meal of several courses into which John tucked heartily. However, he could not help but notice that Charles picked at his food, moving it round his plate with his fork, yet drinking heavily all the while. He came to the conclusion that there was something wrong with the man though he couldn’t as yet identify what it was.
    It was a strange sensation, sitting next to Coralie, wondering what she was thinking, almost as if the clocks had been turned back and the intervening years with all their spent passions and terrible dramas had not taken place. But they had and there could be no denying them. John decided that there was only one thing to do and that was