In disbelief Lord Morland watched his friend lazily recount Byron's latest witticism at Caro Lamb's expense. Hawke's eyes glittered, and laughter sprang easily to his lips. For all the world he looked unconcerned, the urbane host conscious only of diverting his guests with the latest scandalous on-dit.
They had come through many things together, the earl thought grimly, both in war and in peace, but never had he known dislike for another human being so fierce as he did now for this callous stranger he had once reckoned his closest friend.
* * * * *
It's useless, Alexandra thought, angrily pulling the gossamer gown over her head. Useless and pointless, the whole thing. Her father was dead. What words could ever bring him back?
With a frown she cradled the silver fabric and laid it across the bed. The gown was badly creased, she saw — extra work for some poor housemaid.
She smoothed the soft folds for a moment, her face blazing with defiance. She had had her say, at least, damn them all, even if ...
Alexandra shuddered and shook her head, trying to force down the old doubts. She stepped out of her chemise and into the fine lawn nightgown that Daisy, the upper housemaid, had left out on the bed for her.
Sir Stanford, of course, had been all that was kind. He had listened quietly while she poured out her story — carefully omitting her abduction by Hawkesworth — and offered her whatever assistance lay within his power. He was preparing to return to Java in several months' time, and she was warmly welcomed to join their party. His wife would be glad of Alexandra's companionship at Bencoolen, Sir Stanford assured her.
Numbly, Alexandra sat down on the bed. The sheer fabric of her nightdress rustled quietly as she stared down at a white shape upon the carpet. She realized she had dropped the embossed card that her friend had pressed upon her before he left.
Tomorrow morning he would be at home; he begged her to come around then. She was not friendless, he assured her, nor had her father been. Even now, in fact, there was a movement afoot to demand that Lord Maitland's case be reopened.
Still Alexandra did not reach for the card. Something held her from commitment to the course Sir Stanford offered. Her thoughts sluggish and confused, she picked up an ivory fan from the bed. Frowning, she opened and closed the fragile sticks, thinking about the scene at dinner and the narrow lazy minds her father had fought all his life. Unconsciously, her fingers stole to the gentle concave of her stomach. How much longer until her condition became apparent? she wondered. What would Sir Stanford say if he knew she was carrying the Duke of Hawkesworth's bastard?
No, not bastard, she told herself fiercely. Her child — a gentle creature to be loved and nurtured far from the taint of Hawkesworth's influence.
"Going to bed already?"
Alexandra froze as the object of her hatred swirled into solid, heart-stopping reality before her eyes. He said nothing at first, merely surveyed her with cold arrogant eyes. When he saw the card on the rug, he bent to pick it up and study the elegant letters.
"So, my dear, you waste no time in securing a new protector. I wonder what Sir Stanford's new wife will have to say about this menage a trois. Such arrangements must be common in the East, however."
Hawke wanted to hurt her, to make her bleed as he had bled when he heard her outburst, as he was bleeding now. His large fingers crumpled Sir Raffles's card into a shapeless wad of pulp and dropped it into his pocket. "But our dinner is not over," he said, his voice frozen with rage. "You will dress and go downstairs, where you will apologize to Lord Liverpool and the rest of my guests. Your behavior was inexcusable."
"I will not!" Alexandra snapped, white hot with anger just as fierce. "Everything I said was true, and I'll take nothing back — not for you or anyone else!"
"On the contrary, your outburst was unforgivable, the shrill histrionics of a Drury Lane harpy."
Alexandra's fingers tightened upon the delicate ivory spokes of the fan.
"So I wanted to hurt you! Why should I not make you feel the pain my father felt?" Alexandra cried. "Had you been a man of principle or reason — a gentleman rather than a nobleman, in short — none of this wretched business would have come to pass. I did not devise the degrading little melodrama you began at Seaford!"
"But the plan to find me was your own," Hawke countered implacably.
Suddenly, the ivory fan in Alexandra's fingers snapped. The anger that flared between them was almost a palpable thing.
Alexandra closed her lips in a hard line. "You did not believe my father, either. He warned you what must be the outcome of such ill-judged policies in India. Everything was wrong, don't you see? The policy was wrong, and the punishment was wrong. Someone has got to speak for those who cannot!"
Hawke studied her, his legs braced, his hands curled into fists. "I see only that you have disgraced yourself, insulted my guests, and exposed us both to ridicule. You may care to have your name bruited about by every gossip and self-proclaimed wit in town. I do not. You have also, I might point out, destroyed any chance of reversing the judgment made in your father's case."
Alexandra clutched the broken fan sticks, her face a mask of fury, for he told her only what she knew herself. Her voice, when she was finally able to speak, was raw and unsteady. "How contemptible you are — all of you! All that matters to you is that you be well fed and amused, never mind at whose expense. Manners, or the brittle facade that passes for manners among your set, are all that is important to you, because morals might get in the way of your pleasure. You are like the rest of the ton — you drink and laugh and eat and philander, while others sweat in the merciless Indian sun, all so that you might have the leisure for such idleness. You disgust me!"
A thin white line appeared around Hawke's tightened lips. Her words hurt him more than he dared admit, even to himself. He had known his share of toil in the sun and the taste of death on the field of battle. He'd had his fill of that on the Peninsula, by God, but he'd be damned if he'd justify himself to her or anyone else!
"If what you say were true," he said coldly, "I would not be doing what I am about to do, what I have planned to do for some time. Not even your execrable conduct will make me change my mind. So now you will put on that gown and accompany me downstairs, where you will apologize for the monstrous scene you just enacted. You will plead the strain of the dinner preparations, and when you speak, you will be contrite and entirely sincere." His eyes were harsh as he rapped out his orders with the flat precision of an officer accustomed to command. "You will remain below, looking pale and remorseful, for a quarter hour, after which time you will beg to be excused on the grounds of a headache. Then you will retire for the rest of the evening."
Alexandra gasped, speechless with fury. "I will do no such thing!" she exploded finally.
"You will do it!" Hawke announced furiously, his fingers shooting out to grip her arm. "You will do it because I tell you to, and because it is the only way you'll ever have your father's case reopened. Liverpool is a very powerful man, and Canning is almost his equal. With them in opposition, you haven't a chance in hell of success. Or is all this concern about your father just a sham?"
Her fingers itched to slap his shuttered face, to wipe that frozen hauteur from his taut countenance. But Alexandra did not, for she knew Hawke was right. Without Liverpool and Canning's support — without Hawke's support, as well — her father's case would remain a closed book.
Stiffly, she pulled her arm from his grasp. "Very well," she said through clenched teeth. "I shall meet you downstairs as soon as I have dressed."
"On the contrary, my dear, you will dress here and now." A thin sneer curled Hawke's lips as he lifted the gown from the bed. "By the time a maid can be summoned, our guests would be gone."
Alexandra did not move, only stared mutinously at the silver float of fabric Hawke held out to her. Her color fluctuated wildly, roses amid melting snow, and her eyes were dark with anger.
"Shall I help you put it on?" Hawke growled, stalking closer
.
"You think to gloat, do you not?" she cried angrily. "To mock me for my naive idealism. But you cannot gloat, for it's not idealism that drives me, but guilt!"
Hawke's eyes narrowed as he studied her wild haunted face.
"I killed him, don't you see? With my pride and my stubborn refusal to marry. That night he came to me, pleading with me to marry Lord Wexford's son. But I just laughed, as I always laughed at his requests. Not for me, marriage with a foolish young fop just out from England. Oh, God!" she cried, angry tears slipping from her flashing eyes. "Why couldn't I hear the desperation in his voice? He wanted a grandchild to dandle on his knee. He wanted to know the Maitland line would not disappear. If only I had given that to him, then —"
"Then he might not have killed himself?" Hawke demanded. "You can't really believe that, can you?" His fingers dug into her trembling shoulders. "He did it for himself, Alexandra, not because of anything you or anyone else did or did not do. He was probably a great man, your father, but a very selfish man as well, as great men often are."
Alexandra stood frozen, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides as she tried to fathom this explanation. "I only wish I could believe it," she said at last.
"Of course you can believe it — unless you wish to go on torturing yourself," Hawke said ruthlessly. "Rubbish! It's all rubbish. The decision to marry was yours, Alexandra, not your father's. Just as the decision to end his life was his alone."
Outside in the street a carriage clattered noisily past and left a hollow silence in its wake. Hawke glared down at Alexandra, his eyes glittering like cold stars in the dark night of his face. With fierce concentration he jerked the fine lawn nightgown over her head. His eyes grazed her body as she stood unflinching before him, knowing that this hurt him most of all.
"Put on the damned dress!" he growled, jerking the silver silk over her head. Angrily, he pushed her around and began to force the tiny covered buttons through their closures. "The necklace, too."
Alexandra's back was rigid, her muscles entirely unyielding beneath his expert fingers. Very well, my bloody duke, she thought, I'll play out my part. I'll crawl along Bond Street on my hands and knees if it will get my father's case reopened. Maybe then, at least, she would know some relief from this horrible nagging guilt.
And after that, there was always Sir Stanford's offer, she thought. The natives in Java could be no more savage than the people she had met so far in London.
* * * * *
Thirty minutes later it was done. Alexandra had humbled herself and begged forgiveness in a performance worthy of Mrs. Siddons. She had endured Lady Wallingford's disapproving sneers and her daughter's mock sympathy. By the time it was over, her plea of being unwell was no longer feigned.
She was standing by the bed clutching one of the carved wooden bed posts when she heard a faint scratching at the door.
Surely Hawke could not have followed her so soon. With a frown Alexandra cracked the door slightly ajar. Strangely, the hall was empty. A moment later a draft at her feet drew her attention lower, and she smiled tremulously as Rajah shot through the narrow space between door and frame.
"Ah, love, how I've been neglecting you!" She stooped and gathered the little creature into her hands, stroking his brown fur gently. "But all that is at end," she said softly, her eyes bright with unshed tears. With a little sob she laid her cheek against the mongoose's sleek pelt. For a long time she did not speak.
Rajah sniffed and stared up at her intently. His pink nose twitched as he registered the currents around him.
"I hate him!" she said angrily.
But she did not.
"I'll run away."
But she could not.
Tears pressed against her eyelids. "Oh, Rajah, whatever am I going to do?" Finally, the silent tears spilled down her face in a silver rush. Rajah squeaked in puzzlement, arched his long tail, and fluffed up his fur. With narrowed eyes he angled his head at the unhappy face of his mistress. He did not move, only chattered gently as if to coax her from her distress.
When the first salty drop struck his fur, the little mongoose squeaked. A moment later, Alexandra felt his gentle paw upon her shoulder.
* * * * *
Downstairs, the dinner party finally drew to a close. Canning had been the first to leave. Now Lady Wallingford and her daughter were waiting for the escort of Lord and Lady Liverpool before departing.
"Delightful evening, Hawke," the prime minister announced. "Damn if that ornamental confection of Vauxhall wasn't perfect to the last detail. Have to get the name of your chef."
"It was Miss Mayfield's idea, as a matter of fact. Perhaps she's been doing too much. I'm afraid the strain is beginning to show."
"Ah, Miss Mayfield." Lord Liverpool's voice dropped slightly. "Unpleasant business. Still, Raffles had the right of it, I think. Put it down to all the strain of traveling and her understandable concern with India. Yes," he continued more loudly, congratulating himself as if the idea were his own, "nothing more than female irritability. Mustn't be too harsh on the ladies, you know." He reached down and squeezed Lady Liverpool's hand fondly. "Lady Liverpool would be happy to guide her in such matters, I'm sure. Must send her around for a chat some time."
And so the matter was to be overlooked, nicely relegated to female distemper, forgiven and forgotten at the same time. This was exactly what Hawke had hoped for. Yet Liverpool's condescension irritated him.
"You're too kind, Liverpool," Hawke murmured, "and I will give Miss Mayfield the message when she's more herself. I'm sure she could use a little guidance."
"And as for the other matter," the prime minister said conspiratorially, "let's just say that you may be surprised at how fast we can act when it suits us."
Five minutes later, everyone was gone but Hawke and Morland.
"And now, Tony, I think I'm entitled to something a bit stronger than champagne. Fortunately, I've been holding some excellent brandy for just such an occasion." He turned and looked at his friend, his eyebrow arched questioningly. "Do you join me?"
"I'm afraid I cannot see the slightest reason for celebration," Morland answered stiffly.
Hawke's eyes narrowed. "Best say what you have to say in a quieter place, I see."
Morland followed the duke to his study. Neither spoke while Hawke filled a glass with brandy and then tossed it down. "Now then, Tony, let's have it. Why are you bristling like a damned cat?"
Morland eyed his friend angrily. "You need to ask? Because of your bloody behavior, that's why! You must know Miss Mayfield's real identity as well as I do. She had a right to speak as she did, in view of the circumstances."
Hawkesworth's fingers froze upon the glass. "Did she tell you who she was?"
"No, she didn't," Morland said impatiently, "but it didn't take a great intellect to figure it out from what she said tonight. You led me to believe you had her best interests at heart, man! And yet you deliberately subjected her to the worst sort of humiliation. Oh, yes, I could tell that she was apologizing under duress."
"Come, Tony, we've never tangled over our women before, and I see no reason to begin now. Let's cry friends."
But Morland was not to be placated so easily. "I wonder if I know you at all, Richard," he said coldly, "if I ever knew you."
"Oh, blows the wind from that quarter?" Hawke asked, his voice dangerously quiet. "I warn you, she's not your type, Tony. Too willful and stubborn by half." Hawke's voice hardened. "And even if she were your type, you'd steer clear of her. Because she's mine, do you hear? She'll always be mine, no matter what I decide to do about her. If you value your skin, you'll remember that, by God!"
"You had no intention of letting her go, did you? You're a fool, Richard," Morland said acidly. "That's why you'll lose her in the end. And when you do, I'll be there to catch her." His blue eyes snapped angrily. "Don't bother to see me out. It will be a pleasure to find my own way."
Chapter Thirty-Five
It was some minutes before Hawke m
oved, and then it was only to pour himself another glass of fine aged brandy. A crash of the door and his friend's angry footsteps rang hollowly in his ears as he swirled the last dark spirits at the bottom of his glass.
Damn Morland, anyway! He and Hawke had known each other since they were in leading strings. Who'd have thought Tony would cut up stiff over a woman — particularly another man's woman?
But Alexandra Maitland, Hawke thought bitterly, was something entirely out of the common way. The woman seemed to have a knack for setting people at sixes and sevens. Only look what she had done to his own life since that night she'd come running out of the fog!
Hawke's face was deeply lined as he slid wearily into a tufted leather arm chair, glass in hand. With a sigh he propped his elbows on the desk, staring blindly at the polished rosewood surface, seeing neither it nor the little ormolu clock nor the Sevres figurine of a shepherdess he'd always detested.
Suddenly, he reached down to release a latch at the front of his desk. With a quiet click a secret compartment sprang open. A muscle leaped at Hawke's jaw as he pulled a lock of curling red-gold hair from the hidden drawer and laid it gently in his palm, his eyes dark with pain.
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