"We did," Hestia nibbled her plump lip nervously, in a way that made Alex want to groan. "Though you did not mention activities at the time..."
"Well, my main activity will involve making a bed in the corner, that is comfortable enough to sleep on," Alex smiled, walking toward the actual bed and removing several woollen blankets. "Whilst yours will involved making yourself as cosy as possible on the feather mattress."
The look of relief on her face tugged at his heartstrings; his wife was not ready to become his, and despite his confident assurances to her that she would soon relent, doubt was starting to creep in.
"Goodnight Hestia," he said solemnly, as he threw his blankets over the armchair by the fireplace.
"Goodnight Alex," came her sleepy reply.
At least she was calling him by his given name, he thought as he settled himself down for the night, that was an improvement of sorts.
Chapter Thirteen
"Well, was I not right?"
"Right about what?"
"That leaving Cornwall would secure you a husband."
Hestia resisted rolling her eyes as Lady Bedford gave her a smug smile and glanced obviously at the Marquess, who was wrestling with a wriggling herd of Cavaliers in the corner of the room.
"I think you said, that if I stayed in Cornwall, I would never find a husband," Hestia responded, suppressing a grin. "Which is quite a different thing."
"Balderdash, I know what I said," Lady Bedford snorted, "And look at you now --a Marchioness!"
Although she was now officially titled the Marchioness of Falconbridge, she still felt like plain, old Hestia Stockbow. Even more so, now that she was seated before Lady Bedford, the woman who had so kindly seen her, and her mother, through years of genteel poverty.
"It still feels so strange," she confessed to the older woman, "I am so grateful to Lord Delaney for all the help that he has provided me."
"I'm sure he was more than grateful for the opportunity to help you," Lady Bedford raised her eyebrows, "Judging by the way he looks at you. He's smitten, and I don't blame him."
Hestia flushed at her kind words, wishing that she could tell Lady Bedford that Alex had only married her out of a misplaced sense of duty. She wasn't even a proper wife yet; she had not given him anything of herself. The memory of his muscular chest, as he had changed for bed the previous night, flashed across her mind's eye. He was so masculine, it was almost overwhelming. A part of her longed for him, but another part, the part that had witnessed the disaster her parent's passion for each other had caused, still resisted. Though one day,she knew, she would have to allow him his liberties.
She, Alex and Lady Bedford were taking breakfast together in the dining room. They had arrived at Bedford Hall the previous evening and had been shown to a bedroom far more luxurious than any Hestia had previously been permitted to stay in. Henry had abandoned his mistress, in favour of his siblings, and so Hestia had slept alone in the huge, four-poster bed, extremely conscious of the Marquess, who had slumbered, again, in a chair by the fireplace.
"Trout, Lord Delaney?" Lady Bedford called, as the servants arrived with plates of food.
The maids and footmen threw Hestia subtle glances as they laid the breakfast on the table, no doubt amazed that the girl who used to come begging, now held a higher title than their mistress.
"I was just thinking of trout," Alex called innocently, as he abandoned the dogs and took a seat at the table. Hestia suppressed a laugh, knowing he was making fun of Lady Bedford, who could be a tad overbearing.
The trio discussed the activities for the day, with Lord Delaney calmly supplying Lady Bedford with a false itinerary. Once breakfast had ended, she and Alex rescued Henry from a fight that had broken out between all the dogs and left for the short walk to Rose Cottage.
"Your father bequeathed the house to you, in his will," Alex said, as they made their way down the quiet lane way, towards Hestia's former home.
"Did he leave many possessions?" she asked calmly, hoping that Alex could not tell that the calmness was a front. She knew that her face was drawn and her shoulders stiff, despite her best efforts. The prospect of returning to the place that her father had been murdered, was taking more of a toll than she had imagined.
"Not many," he replied cautiously, picking up a stick and tossing it for Henry. The Cavalier threw him a rather superior look, as if to say "Fetch that yourself" and continued trotting slowly beside his mistress.
"He did leave a sword to a man called Captain Black," Falconbridge added casually, then waited for her response, as though he expected her to recognise the name.
"Captain Who?" she questioned, her pace slowing, "Is he another privateer?"
"No, actually, he was a Navy Captain --and a well regarded one at that," Alex added, which made Hestia frown. Why had her father bequeathed a Navy man his sword? It made no sense.
"This is it," Hestia stated, as they reached a small, tumbledown cottage. It had a thatched roof, which sagged in the middle, and was enclosed by a low stone wall, parts of which had fallen into disrepair.
"The winter winds can be very cruel here," Hestia said absently, trailing a hand along the wall. She felt slightly defensive of her home, even though she knew it must appear terribly run-down to a lofty Marquess.
"How charming," her new husband said, his eyes raking over the garden where dozens of early spring flowers grew. "It is most quaint. I can imagine you were very happy here as a child."
"I was," she replied, pushing the gate, which was stiff from disuse, open and strolling up the garden path to the front door. It was locked, though the key which was hidden in a plant-pot, still worked. Hestia pushed the door open, braced herself and stepped inside.
"Oh," she said aloud, as she saw the dust-covered kitchen was the same as it had been the last time she was there. She had expected, perhaps, to find signs of a struggle, or even bloodstains, but mercifully all she found was a room filled with memories.
"Is everything alright?" Alex asked, his face a picture of concern.
"I had just expected..." Hestia trailed off, unsure of what she wanted to say, or how to respond to his question. Everything was not alright; her parents were gone and she was all alone in the world.
A pair of strong arms wrapped around her, and to her surprise she found herself cradled against the Marquess's strong chest.
"There, there," he said, stroking her hair tenderly, "It's alright to cry."
She hadn't even realised that she was crying, but once he had said the words, she felt the tears which stained her cheeks. He held her tightly, as sob after sob wracked her body, never once letting her go, or complaining about his shirt, which was quickly ruined by her tears.
"I am sorry," she whispered, once she had regained her composure, "I don't know what came over me."
"Grief," he responded quietly, "And please, don't apologise for it."
Hestia ran her hands down her dress, smoothing her skirts which had become wrinkled, and nodded her head. She wanted to thank him for his kindness, but she did not trust her voice not to falter. Just when she had thought herself alone, he had proved her wrong, and the thought was both comforting and a little unsettling.
It would be so easy to fall in love with the brooding man standing opposite her, though her head was quick to overrule her heart. Love brought nothing but trouble, she reminded herself, thinking on how unhappy her mother's final months had been.
"Shall we have a look around?" she suggested brightly, once she was certain that she would not collapse again, into floods of tears. The pair spent an hour rifling through cupboards and drawers, seeking some kind of clue, but they found nothing.
"It's hopeless," she said, sadly. "The original letter has long since disappeared, we will find nothing here, I know it."
"I'm afraid I have to agree," Alex said with a sigh, taking a seat at the old, wooden kitchen table. "Your father was not overly fond of keeping written records."
"What about this Captain Black fel
low?" Hestia asked desperately. "If my father knew him well enough to have left him a sword, then perhaps he might know something that we don't."
The Marquess scratched his chin thoughtfully, nodding his head in agreement with her.
"The fellow is employed by the Duke of Everleigh," he said, "He captains one of his many ships. Perhaps we shall pay a visit to Pemberton, as a detour on the way to Penzance, and see if the Duke knows of Black's current whereabouts."
Pemberton, the Duke's Cornwall estate, was located a few miles outside of St Jarvis. It was most definitely not a "detour" from the route they would have travelled to Penzance, but rather about one hundred miles in the opposite direction.
"Thank you," Hestia said solemnly, hoping that her husband would see the gratitude in her eyes. "If I can be so bold as to ask you one more favour?"
"Anything."
"I would like to visit the place where my father is buried."
A look of alarm passed over her husband's face, though to his credit he quickly hid it.
"If that is what you wish," he said, standing up and stretching lightly, "Then that is what we shall do."
They left the cottage, locking the door behind them. Just before Hestia reached the gate, she remembered the roses that her father had planted for her mother, in his strange rockery at the side of the house.
"One moment," she whispered, picking up her skirts and making her way across the grass. There were few flowers on the rose bushes, as it was too early in the season, but those that were there Hestia took. Once she had picked enough to make a bunch that wasn't too pathetic looking, she made her way back to where Alex was waiting for her.
"Are you alright?" he asked, as he offered her his arm.
"Much better," she decided, slipping her arm through his and allowing him to lead the way.
Truro was often called the London of Cornwall --and for good reason. The carriage which brought Hestia and her husband to her father's final resting place, made its way down Walsingham Place then on to Lemon Street, where the townhouses were so fine as to rival Bath.
As they travelled further out, through warrens of close, cobblestone streets, the architecture of the houses became far less impressive. The graveyard was located on a road which led to one of the nearby tin mines. It was a dark, country road --though one could still see the spires of St. Mary's, which gave Hestia a little relief.
"'Lo, 'lo," an old, wizened man said, shuffling forward to greet Hestia and the Marquess as they alighted the carriage. "Been told to meet yer here, m'lord, m'lady. I's Jim."
The man gave an arthritic bow, that Hestia momentarily feared he may not rise from, before breaking out into a gap-toothed smile.
"I ain't never had a Marquess and a March--march...and 'is wife visiting me a'fore."
"Well," Alex had adopted the brusque manner of a titled man, "As they say, Jim, there is a first time for everything."
Hestia pretended not to notice as her husband discreetly slipped a few coins into the old man's palm. The weight of the coins in his pocket seemed to lift old Jim's spirits, for he gave an even larger grin and began to shuffle quickly into the deserted graveyard.
"Yer father is down t'back, where most of t'new lads are buried," he called, leading Hestia and Alex through the twilight. The ground was uneven and Hestia tripped once or twice, only realising afterward that what she had tripped over were the mounds of earth where men lay buried.
"How do you remember who is who?" she asked, quelling the bile that was rising in her throat. There were no headstones or markers on the graves to distinguish who was buried beneath.
"I keep the name of every soul that lies in these grounds up here," the gravedigger said, pointing his finger to his head, which was covered by a mere wisp of grey hair. "I recite alls their names a'fore I fall asleep, say a prayer for them like. I knows they were judged not worthy of a headstone, but only the good Lord has the right to judge. Every soul deserves a prayer, is what I think."
Hot tears pricked Hestia's eyes at the man's simple words, and she felt a rush of gratitude to him for his compassion. It soothed her soul to think that there was someone else in the world, who cared enough to pray for her father.
"'Ere 'e is," Jim said, with little ceremony, as they reached a place where the earth still had the look of being recently disturbed. "I'll leave you alone for a moment."
Hestia stared down at the ground where her father lay buried, blinking back tears from her eyes. It was such a bleak, lonely spot --not a place he would have chosen, had he a choice.
"These are for you, father," she whispered, placing the bunch of flowers down on the mound of earth. She stood in silence, for how long she did not know, until she felt a strong hand take hers.
"You're shaking."
It was Alex, his voice low and deep with concern. Hestia had not noticed, but once he said it, she realised he was right. Her whole body trembled with a deep cold that seemed to have seeped into her very bones. She allowed her husband to lead her away, past Jim --whom he thanked--and back to the carriage.
She did not remember the journey from Truro to Bedford Hall, though she did remember the feeling of safety as her husband carried her bodily from the carriage and up the stairs to her bed chambers.
Alex removed her shoes and her outer garments, before placing her gently in her bed.
"Don't leave me," she whispered, though she was almost afraid of the sheer need she felt for the strength that his presence gave her.
"Never," was his gentle reply.
He lay down, still clothed, beside her and drew her to his chest. He stroked her back as she shed a thousand tears, and when she awoke in the morning, she was still wrapped in his arms, and nothing had ever felt so right.
Chapter Fourteen
Alex arrived in St Jarvis, hopeful that something there might lead to more clues about David Stockbow's life and death --because after Truro, he was beginning to think that Hestia was right in suspecting Dubois.
Thomas had made enquiries in Truro's less salubrious inns, and had learned that Dubois had indeed been spotted there the week before Stockbow's murder. The local ruffians had been reluctant to give the London valet much more information, but they had hinted that Dubois had been seeking the services of hired muscle.
Perhaps Alex had been right when he said that Dubois was far too lazy to murder a man --though it was beginning to appear that he was capable of hiring someone else to carry out the act.
The Marquess had not shared his growing sense of unease with his new bride, preferring instead to make for St Jarvis. He was certain that this Captain Black would reveal a missing piece of the puzzle--he just had to find him.
"Do you know the Duke of Everleigh well?" Hestia asked, as their carriage made its way slowly up the drive of Pemberton Hall, the Duke's Cornish residence.
"Well enough," Alex shrugged, which was to say not that well at all. Though few could claim a close acquaintance with the Duke, who was infamous for shunning society. He had written ahead, to inform Everleigh of his purpose for visiting, so they were greeted quite cordially upon their arrival.
"How lovely to see you again," Olive, Duchess of Everleigh said with a genuinely warm smile as she embraced Hestia in a warm hug. "Ruan is out riding, though if you come through to the parlour, you'll find a surprise guest to greet you."
"Jane!"
Hestia appeared overjoyed to find the new Lady Payne waiting patiently in the elegant parlour room, at the front of the house. Alex watched, overcome with jealousy as his wife's eyes lit up at the sight of her friend. Would his new Marchioness ever greet him with that same excitement?
"You look marvellous," Lady Payne cried, holding Hestia at arm's length, so that she could inspect her properly. Hestia was dressed in a simple riding gown of emerald green, made from warm but fine wool. On her ears she wore dark ruby earrings, a parting gift from Lady Phoebe and on her finger was a large emerald ring that Alex had given her on their wedding day.
"As do you," He
stia replied, and Alex had to agree-- for Jane was blooming. Her cheeks were rosy against her alabaster skin and her luscious brunette hair was gleaming.
"The countryside suits me," Jane laughed modestly, gesturing for them both to sit. They were joined by Olive, who was ushering a maid inside to serve tea.
Once everyone was served and they had exchanged pleasantries, the topic of conversation changed to London, and the goings on of the ton.
"Well, I know you will be loathe to hear this, but everyone has stopped talking about your marriage," Jane said with a laugh, "They have now settled on discussing the fact that the Viscount Havisham has taken to the drink, and that the Duke of Morhaven is missing his new bride."
"How did Morhaven manage to lose his new wife?" Alex asked, with an amused laugh, not wanting to discuss Hestia's uncle's drinking habits on such a pleasant afternoon.
"It's easily done, I assure you."
The Duke of Everleigh had arrived, his face watching his wife with unconcealed affection. Olive had flushed at his joke, for it was well known that she had fled to Cornwall after marrying Everleigh, thinking him a murderer and a cad.
"Apparently the girl, who's Irish, didn't want to marry him in the first place," Jane continued as Everleigh sat down to join them. "I can't say I blame her; Morhaven has always been a charlatan."
"He's not so bad, if you approach him with a bellyful of brandy," Everleigh shrugged, glancing at Alex surreptitiously. The Marquess instantly picked up on the Duke's subtle hint, and both men excused themselves for a visit to the library.
"How are you finding married life?" Everleigh asked, as he handed Alex a tumbler of brandy. The Marquess shrugged, thinking how best to answer. What would the Duke say if he confessed that he had found the past week a mixture of pure joy and agonising torture? Sharing a bed chamber with a bride who had no interest in you, was much more difficult than he had ever imagined.
"Well enough," he replied, "A little tiring, but nothing a good night's sleep won't sort."
The Marquess of Temptation Page 10