Justice Hall - Laurie R. King [167]
And he was more than just a Hughenfort, I decided as he moved into the room: The title had already begun to settle down onto the child, the awareness of responsibility and eight centuries of tradition—unconscious still, but felt in the glances and the voices of the adults closest to him. The responsibility of the title had nearly smothered Marsh, but on this boy it seemed to be having the opposite effect, giving him stature, adding authority to his open good nature and obvious intelligence. In reflecting back the respect others had for the name and the title, this five-year-old had already begun to take into himself those qualities which justified the respect. On this Hughenfort, the weight of the title looked as if it might ride in his bones, not on his back.
Helen leant down and said something to her son; at his nod, they went forward to the buffet, where she helped him choose the only familiar item in sight, a crustless sandwich. I glanced at Mahmoud and Ali: Mahmoud was watching the boy, Ali the crowd. Then Ali’s crimson-gold-and-lapis-embroidered elbow jabbed into the black arm beside it, and both dark gazes were drilling the room opposite. I moved, and saw Sidney Darling, his long, slim figure evoking a Hollywood sheikh, his turban nonchalantly tilted on his blond hair. I looked back, Mahmoud caught my eye and jerked his head minutely towards the Hall, and then the Hughenforts were gone, child and all.
I hastened to follow them, looking around for Holmes, who materialised at my side as soon as I came through the doorway. “I have Ivo Hughenfort,” he murmured in my ear.
“I’ll take Darling,” I responded. Holmes faded off into the gathering crowd.
It took some time for the guests to realise that it was time to toast their new duke, but gradually, in groups of two or twelve, they trickled back into the Great Hall, drinks in hand at the ready, not silent but prepared to fall so. I could see Ivo Hughenfort towards the bottom of the stairway, which would be the front of the crowd when Mahmoud began to speak. Holmes was behind him, but with his height, he had no trouble watching Ivo. One of the imported servants—he of the crooked nose—came up to speak into Hughenfort’s ear; he listened, nodded, spoke for a moment in response, and the servant went away.
Then Marsh was mounting the stairs, a swirl of midnight black against the pale stone, his right hand holding that of the white-garbed child. Alistair, Helen, Ben, and Iris stayed at the opposite side of the stairs from Ivo Hughenfort, along with a middle-aged woman who would, I thought, meet the description of Mycroft’s kindly, deceptive, and competent attendant. I looked again for Darling’s insouciant turban, found it unmoved a dozen feet away, and looked back at Marsh. At Mahmoud.
Halfway up the stairs, the black figure turned and stood, waiting for silence. The voices fell to a murmur, and still he waited, until all was silence, and every ear could hear his words.
“Thank you for coming to Justice Hall this evening. You honour my family with your presence.” There was a mild murmur of amusement at that un-English sentiment, and he paused for a moment until the hush returned.
“My sister Phillida made this festivity for the express purpose of welcoming the seventh Duke of Beauville. At the time, she, along with everyone else, assumed that man to be myself.” He held up his left hand to cut off any reaction. “You may be aware that my brother Henry, the sixth Duke, had a son. His name was Gabriel, and he was killed in the War as so many others were. Only in recent weeks have we begun to suspect that before his death, Gabriel provided himself with an heir. A legal heir, contingent only on locating the certificate, either through a close search of the house, or by means of the church records of the village in France where Gabriel and his bride were secretly wed. A delegation will set out on Monday to locate that legal record, but I thought it best to anticipate their success