Night of a Thousand Stars - Deanna Raybourn MIRA

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Hammond doesn’t have gutta-percha balls,” he replied solemnly. If he had been one of my half-brothers, I would have suspected him of making an indelicate joke, but his face was perfectly solemn.

      “No one does,” I assured him. “Anyway, he’s a lovely man but he isn’t really my father. And when the twins came along, and then the boys, well, they had their own family, didn’t they? It was nothing to do with me.” I fell silent a moment then pressed on, adopting a firmly cheerful tone. “Still, it hasn’t been so bad. I thoroughly enjoyed coming back here to go to school, and I have found my father.”

      “You’ve seen him?” he asked quickly.

      “No. But I made some inquiries, and I know where he is. He’s a painter,” I told him. I was rather proud of the little bit of detection I had done to track him down. “We wrote letters for a while, but he travelled extensively—looking for subjects to paint, I suppose. He gave me a London address in Half Moon Street to send the letters, but he didn’t actually live there. You know, it’s quite sad, but I always felt so guilty when his letters came. Mother would take to her bed with a bottle of reviving tonic every time she saw his handwriting in the post. I didn’t dare ask to invite him to the wedding. She would have shrieked the house down, and it did seem rather beastly to Reginald since he was paying for it. Still, it is peculiar to have an entire family I haven’t met. Some of them kept in touch—my Aunt Portia, for one. She sent me the copy of Married Love. When I came to England for the little season, I asked her where Father was. She promised not to tell him I’d asked, but she sent me his address. He has a house in Devon. He likes the light there, something about it being good for his work.”

      “I see.”

      “It’s very kind of you to drive me,” I said, suddenly feeling rather shy with this stranger to whom I had revealed entirely too much. “Oh!” I sat up very straight. “I don’t even know your name.”

      “Sebastian. My name is Sebastian Cantrip.”

      “Cantrip? That’s an odd name,” I told him.

      “No odder than Penelope.”

      I laughed. “It’s Greek, I think. My mother’s choice. She thought it sounded very elegant and educated. But my father called me Poppy.”

      Sebastian slanted me a look. “It suits you better.”

      “I think so, but when I was presented as a debutante, Mother insisted on calling me Penelope Hammond. Hammond isn’t my legal name, you know. It gave me quite a start to see the name on the invitations to the wedding. Mr. and Mrs. Reginald Hammond cordially invite you to the wedding of their daughter, Penelope Hammond. But I’m not Penelope Hammond, not really.” I lifted my chin towards the road rising before us. “I’m Poppy March.”

      “Well, Poppy March, I suggest you rest a bit. We’ve a long drive ahead of us, and you must be exhausted.”

      I snuggled down into the seat, eyelids drooping, then bolted up again. “You’re sure you don’t need me? I am an ace reader of maps.”

      “I think I can find my way to Devonshire,” he assured me. “If I get to Land’s End, I’ll know I’ve gone too far.”

       Two

      It was dark by the time we reached Sidmouth, and darker still by the time we turned off the main road to the small byway leading to the village of Abbots Burton. I had provided him with an imperfect address, but Sebastian had an excellent sense of direction and the wit to stop twice and ask the locals. A garage mechanic put him on the right road to carry us to the end of the village, and an avidly curious woman walking her Pomeranians pointed out the cottage.

      “That’s it, Cowslip Cottage. There’s an artist that lives there,” she told him, edging around to get a proper look at me—the girl in the wedding dress sitting silently in the fancy motorcar.

      Sebastian thanked the woman and nipped back into the vehicle, slamming the door sharply to put an end to the conversation. The woman tutted to her dogs as I smothered a laugh.

      “Laugh now,” Sebastian told me dryly. “It will be all over the village by morning that your father has a visitor. If you wanted to keep your whereabouts a secret, I’m afraid you’d have been better off hiding out in London.”

      I shrugged. Now that we were actually here the fight seemed to have gone out of me, and the look Sebastian gave me was decidedly worried.

      “Damn, I’m a brute. I didn’t even think to feed you,” he muttered.

      I smiled. “It doesn’t matter,” I assured him. “I couldn’t have eaten a bite.”

      Just then my stomach rumbled loudly, as if to prove me a liar, and Sebastian grinned. “I’m sure your father will be more than happy to feed you up. Now, are you ready?”

      I nodded, taking his hand as he helped me out of the motorcar. I’d come too far to turn back now, and I made a point of striding purposefully through the little gate at the front of the cottage and straight up to the door.

      It wasn’t until I raised my hand to the knocker that I hesitated. But Sebastian was behind me, solid and reassuring, and I felt better for having him there. I suddenly realised I had never actually felt better for having Gerald around.

      “I did the right thing in running away,” I murmured to myself. But still I did not knock.

      “Allow me,” Sebastian said. He didn’t give me time to think. He simply lifted the knocker and dropped it into place with two sharp taps.

      I barely had time to take a breath before the door opened. A man in a canvas apron stood on the threshold, scowling.

      “What the devil do you want? Do you have any idea what time it is?” he barked.

      I felt myself wilt, and Sebastian stepped forward, his expression livid.

      “I say, that’s no way to talk to the young lady,” he began.

      But before he could finish, the man in the apron was prodded aside by the business end of a walking stick. It was wielded by a tall gentleman with a head of thick silver hair and a primrose-striped smoking jacket. Father.

      “Shut up, George. That isn’t how we welcome guests,” Father said. He came forward, rather slowly but with a very straight back. He peered at us and drew in his breath sharply.

      “Poppy,” he breathed, and it sounded like a prayer. “Are you a mirage, child?” He put out his hand, a gnarled old hand with traces of rose madder across the knuckles. The skin on the hand was wrinkled and the fingers were twisted like the roots of an oak. An old hand, but still a graceful one.

      I caught it in my own. “Yes, Father. It’s Poppy.”

      He coughed hard, smothering what might have been an involuntary sound of emotion. He glanced sharply away, but when he looked back, he had recovered himself.

      “Come in, child. You must be chilled to the bone. George, fetch tea and whisky. And sandwiches while you’re at it. I suspect our guests haven’t eaten,” he added.

      He had not released my hand, and with it still grasped in his, he drew me into the sitting room of the cottage, where a bright fire burned upon the hearth. A pair of comfortable chairs had been arranged by the fire, but we did not sit.

      “Father, I am sorry for just landing on you like this, and I will explain everything.”

      “I already know,” he said mildly. “I get the newspapers even buried down here. You’re married.” He turned to Sebastian with a bland look. “I suppose I ought to offer you congratulations, young man. The heir to the Viscount Madderley, is it?”

      I gave a strangled sound of horror, but Sebastian rose smoothly to the occasion. “I am afraid I do not have that honour, sir. I am Sebastian

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