Read Online The Metallic Muse by Jr. Lloyd Biggle - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jr. Lloyd Biggle
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slamming doors.
“Six! Seven!”
The butler’s face was blandly innocent. “Did you ring, sir?”
“No!” He slammed the door, pushed it open again. “Did you hear me ring?” “No, sir.” “I didn’t ring.”
He stood for a moment by the closed door, scratching an itching ear thoughtfully. He was beginning to wonder if some fumbling director had given his cast the wrong briefing. It had been known to happen.
“Eight!”
The ninth door opened before he reached it and the butler stepped forward. “Breakfast is served in the Green Room, sir. The Duchess is waiting.”
“Oh.” He took three quick strides along the corridor, hesitated, and turned back. “You’re sure it’s the Green Room?”
“Yes, sir. If you would be so good as to follow me, sir—”
Keeping his eyes on the sedate blackness of the butler’s broad back, he followed meekly.
As they entered the Green Room, the Duchess scrambled to her feet—a bit ungracefully, he thought—and hurried toward him, her flowing gown lightly brushing the carpet. He winced when her dry lips touched his cheek.
“Good morning, dear,” she said. There was a brittle eagerness in her bright voice.
“Morning,” he said curtly.
She returned to her chair, and the butler escorted him to the other end of the long table and seated him. He glowered distastefully at his egg cup.
“Ham?” he asked hopefully.
“I’m sorry, sir, but the doctor—your stomach, you know.”
“I’m hungry’”
“Would you like two eggs, sir?”
Sadly he reached for a spoon and jabbed at the egg.
The Duchess was picking delicately at her breakfast. He watched her curiously, wondering where he had seen her before. Joan of Arc? No, that girl’d had a thinner face. A thinner figure, too. The Duchess was actually good-looking. Cleopatra—that was it, but he hadn’t been Julius Caesar for more than a month. Odd that she would still be around.
She glanced up at him, and his searching gaze triggered her face into an instant smile. “Did you sleep well, dear? I hope the speech isn’t worrying you.”
He dropped his spoon, and it clattered dully. “Speech?”
“You have just three days left, and Parliament will be in a frightful stew if you don’t have it ready. You will work on it this morning, won’t you, dear?”
The butler whisked away his egg cup and returned it with another egg. He looked around for the salt and saw none. “Salt?” he asked.
Tm sorry, sir, but your doctor—”
“Damn the doctor! I’ll get another doctor! I haven’t had a decent meal since Waterloo!”
He jabbed furiously with his spoon. He’d have to be someone healthy soon, he told himself, or he’d starve to death.
The Duchess carefully got to her feet—she was obviously uneasy about her train. A pity, he thought, that they hadn’t given her time to practice.
“You will excuse me, won’t you, dear?” she asked. “I must go over the household accounts. I’ve been putting it off for days. I’ll be in the West Sewing Room.”
He fed himself a large mouthful of egg and waved her away.
“James,” she said to the butler, “see that the Duke is settled in the library as soon as he’s finished breakfast. Do work hard on the speech, won’t you, dear?”
He watched her approvingly as she swept out of the room. She had a very good figure. She’d even had a good figure as Cleopatra, and there wasn’t any place for padding in that costume.
He turned to the butler. “Another egg?”
“Sorry, sir, but your doctor—”
He shattered the egg cup on the floor and then followed the butler down the long corridor to the library.
He sat for some time before the polished expanse of desk, doubtfully eying the pile of scented paper that lay in front of him. He was hungry. Damn, but he was hungry! He wondered what he should do next. He glanced at the ring that circled the small finger of his left hand-a large gold ring with 1319 engraved on it in tiny numbers. He rubbed it futilely.
“Six! Seven!”
The butler’s face was blandly innocent. “Did you ring, sir?”
“No!” He slammed the door, pushed it open again. “Did you hear me ring?” “No, sir.” “I didn’t ring.”
He stood for a moment by the closed door, scratching an itching ear thoughtfully. He was beginning to wonder if some fumbling director had given his cast the wrong briefing. It had been known to happen.
“Eight!”
The ninth door opened before he reached it and the butler stepped forward. “Breakfast is served in the Green Room, sir. The Duchess is waiting.”
“Oh.” He took three quick strides along the corridor, hesitated, and turned back. “You’re sure it’s the Green Room?”
“Yes, sir. If you would be so good as to follow me, sir—”
Keeping his eyes on the sedate blackness of the butler’s broad back, he followed meekly.
As they entered the Green Room, the Duchess scrambled to her feet—a bit ungracefully, he thought—and hurried toward him, her flowing gown lightly brushing the carpet. He winced when her dry lips touched his cheek.
“Good morning, dear,” she said. There was a brittle eagerness in her bright voice.
“Morning,” he said curtly.
She returned to her chair, and the butler escorted him to the other end of the long table and seated him. He glowered distastefully at his egg cup.
“Ham?” he asked hopefully.
“I’m sorry, sir, but the doctor—your stomach, you know.”
“I’m hungry’”
“Would you like two eggs, sir?”
Sadly he reached for a spoon and jabbed at the egg.
The Duchess was picking delicately at her breakfast. He watched her curiously, wondering where he had seen her before. Joan of Arc? No, that girl’d had a thinner face. A thinner figure, too. The Duchess was actually good-looking. Cleopatra—that was it, but he hadn’t been Julius Caesar for more than a month. Odd that she would still be around.
She glanced up at him, and his searching gaze triggered her face into an instant smile. “Did you sleep well, dear? I hope the speech isn’t worrying you.”
He dropped his spoon, and it clattered dully. “Speech?”
“You have just three days left, and Parliament will be in a frightful stew if you don’t have it ready. You will work on it this morning, won’t you, dear?”
The butler whisked away his egg cup and returned it with another egg. He looked around for the salt and saw none. “Salt?” he asked.
Tm sorry, sir, but your doctor—”
“Damn the doctor! I’ll get another doctor! I haven’t had a decent meal since Waterloo!”
He jabbed furiously with his spoon. He’d have to be someone healthy soon, he told himself, or he’d starve to death.
The Duchess carefully got to her feet—she was obviously uneasy about her train. A pity, he thought, that they hadn’t given her time to practice.
“You will excuse me, won’t you, dear?” she asked. “I must go over the household accounts. I’ve been putting it off for days. I’ll be in the West Sewing Room.”
He fed himself a large mouthful of egg and waved her away.
“James,” she said to the butler, “see that the Duke is settled in the library as soon as he’s finished breakfast. Do work hard on the speech, won’t you, dear?”
He watched her approvingly as she swept out of the room. She had a very good figure. She’d even had a good figure as Cleopatra, and there wasn’t any place for padding in that costume.
He turned to the butler. “Another egg?”
“Sorry, sir, but your doctor—”
He shattered the egg cup on the floor and then followed the butler down the long corridor to the library.
He sat for some time before the polished expanse of desk, doubtfully eying the pile of scented paper that lay in front of him. He was hungry. Damn, but he was hungry! He wondered what he should do next. He glanced at the ring that circled the small finger of his left hand-a large gold ring with 1319 engraved on it in tiny numbers. He rubbed it futilely.
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