Household by Florence Stevenson Page A

and a tall mahogany armoire. Richard had been brought to the room by a lightvoiced, soft-footed lad with the beautiful sexless face of an Italian choirboy. He had been clad in the grey livery common to all of Sir Francis’ servants. Helping Richard undress, he had assisted him into the bath. However, an offer to scrub his back had been curtly rejected.
    Lying in waters that were pleasantly warm, Richard wondered if pedastry were the order of the day at the abbey, but dismissed that notion as he recalled the paintings. That Sir Francis was both hedonist and Satanist he was willing to believe, but he must be exonerated of what men called the French vice. Certainly he was a strange man and a disappointment, yet at least a question troubling him ever since the previous evening had been resolved. He had wondered why Sir Francis was so eager to forward the course of true love and for a stranger. Undoubtedly, the baronet imagined he had left the church because he had lost his faith in God. Probably he would have been extremely disappointed to learn that the erstwhile Reverend Veringer had no faith to lose and that he had loathed every moment spent in seminary and pulpit! Yet, as he was quick to assure himself, that was just as well. If Sir Francis had not imagined him to be an apostate ripe for devilish mischief, he never would have invited him to Medmenham and Catlin would now be in Ireland. He grimaced. They were taking a damned long time bringing them together, and to think about her as much as he did was intensely frustrating, especially for one who had not held a woman in his arms since Meg deserted him.
    “ Abstinence, dear Richard, maketh the heart grow fonder. ”
    Richard started, causing some of the water to spill over the tub’s edge. The whisper in his ears was in his brother’s voice. Fulke had said those words to him when he had deprived him of Christina, and why was he now thinking_of his damned sibling—hopefully damned, he amended, wishing he could believe in such heavenly reprisals.
    Banishing Fulke from his mind, he clambered out of the bath. There was a rough towel lying on a chair. Wrapping it around him, he rubbed himself dry. His heart was beginning to pound heavily. It was time—it had to be time for him to join Catlin. He strode to the armoire, expecting to find his second-best suit of clothes, but on peering inside, he found only a long brown cassock which ordinarily would have been made of sackcloth and tied with a rope. This garment was fashioned from heavy silk and belted with a twisted silken cord. On the floor beneath it was a pair of leather sandals. He eyed the costume angrily. He was not going to dress up like some damned mountebank! He strode back to the bed where the boy had laid his black suit only to find it gone.
    Additional anger shot through him. He pulled open the door to his room, hastily slamming it as he heard a spurt of girlish giggling in the corridor and remembered belatedly that he could not be the only guest at the abbey. His choice was clear. Either he donned that damned robe or he remained here. Was he to greet Catlin in this Papist attire? The idea was deeply repugnant, but since he had no choice he finally put it on, feeling like a damned fool. As that thought crossed his mind, he smiled unwillingly. Those who did obeisance to the so-called foul fiend could also be called damned—and fools, they undoubtedly were. “I’m in good company,” he muttered, as he slipped his feet into the sandals and knotted the cord tightly around his waist. He was about to open the door when he heard a light knock. A thrill of anticipation went through him. Catlin, at last?
    It was not Catlin who waited outside in the hall. It was the boy who had brought him to the chamber. “If your Lordship will be so good as to follow me,” he murmured.
    Once more Richard was going down the hall, descending the stairs to another floor and then down the stairs he had mounted upon arrival. Only this time,