Alice sighed. She did not want to go back, but neither could she stay here with him, unchaperoned as she was. “Shall we join our friends?”
“By all means.” He turned his chestnut around, and Alice followed.
When they approached their friends, Eliza saw them and smiled. “See now, she has returned, and all in one piece.”
“Alice!” Lady Claire shrieked. The shrill tone nearly drove Alice to turn back once again, this time at a gallop, forbidden or no. “You poor thing!”
Alice hid her chuckle behind a gloved hand. “Yes, I feel quite faint from my adventure. The beast just ran away with me!”
Lord Abingdon coughed in his hand. “Did it, indeed?” His voice was low so only she could hear. “How frightening. You must be an excellent horsewoman, Miss Bursnell, for you looked remarkably in control.”
Alice arched an eyebrow. “Did I? Thank you, my lord. That is a very kind compliment.”
They stared at each other.
He really was a most insufferable creature.
Even if his eyes were very, very blue.
Chapter Nine
Nathaniel was uncertain about the girth. Had it been cut intentionally? Or had it merely worn through? Yesterday after their ride, he had examined it closely, as had Wessex, and neither was sure. If it had been intentional, it was certainly well done and looked like an accident. It was not a clean break, the hallmark of foul play.
Perhaps the damage was just a coincidence.
Nathaniel was even more uncertain as to the validity of coincidences, particularly when the coincidence involved his life. Since the age of sixteen, he’d had more than a dozen narrow escapes. Surely, he could not be as accident-prone as all that.
And once again, Miss Bursnell had been present at the mishap. He was even more mistrustful of Miss Bursnell than he was of coincidences and broken girths. He was certain she despised him, but the whys and wherefores of the matter remained a mystery.
It bothered him. Dash it all, it bothered him.
He was quite aware that women did not like him. His suspicious nature turned them away. He was not charming, he was not effusive with compliments, and his tall frame was not at all the thing. He had no style, thanks to his habit of wearing clothing too large—the better to disguise the location of his vital organs should someone be attempting to seek them out with a bullet.
He had once been a favorite with the mamas—having both a title and wealth. But even if a mama could convince her daughter to have him, he could never quite rid his mind of suspicion toward the girl, no matter how meek and biddable she seemed. After several years, even the most ardent social climbing mamas had given up, until women as a whole rarely looked his way. So, he was used to women not thinking of him, either good or ill.
But Miss Bursnell was not indifferent to him, unlike all other ladies. Her soul was burning in response to his—and not the romantic sort of burning, either. This was the fire-and-brimstone sort of burning. The only safe thing to do was flee. Which he had, as soon as their ride had concluded.
His Aunt Lydia, the Dowager Marchioness Breesfield, was in London as the sponsor of his younger sister, Freesia. She’d taken on the role that would normally fall to their mother, while Lady Wintham cared for Mama. The Dowager Marchioness and Freesia were staying in St. James’s Square.
He needed safe harbor. And perhaps a second opinion.
And so, the next morning, there he went.
He found his aunt in her square, pleasingly appointed sitting room overlooking St. James’s Street. She was slim and tall, like all the members of the Eastwood family. Her hair, in the family shade of red-gold, was elegantly coiffed despite the early hour and unexpected visit. But there were threads of silver near her face. Time was continuing its relentless march, whether he wished it to or no.
“Aunt Lydia!” He strode across the room and would have kissed her cheek if he hadn’t been waylaid by a ball of nervous energy throwing herself in his arms.
“Nate! Oh, Nate!” Freesia kissed his cheek emphatically. “I did not know you were in London! Did you know, Aunt Lydia? I am so glad you have come, Nate. I have been introduced to the queen! I did not trip on my curtsy, as Aunt Lydia was afraid I would do. Will you be at my coming out on Friday? Oh, say you will! I am dreadfully afraid I will not dance every dance. I could not bear to be a failure.”
“There, now.” Aunt Lydia sighed, but smiled fondly at his sister. “You have asked two questions, and not paused even once for an answer. Give the man some room to speak, my dear.”
Nathaniel chuckled and held Freesia by the shoulders. “Have you grown? How is it possible? I just saw you a month ago.”
A smile burst on her face. “It is the Eastwood way. I shall be as tall as Papa before I am done!”
Nathaniel smiled back. His sister was certainly an Eastwood, although she wore it rather better than he, in his opinion. Her height looked elegant on her, and the copper locks more graceful than wild. Her blue eyes were several shades darker than his, more sapphire than aquamarine. Freesia would, in his estimation, be a smashing success on the marriage mart.
“Sit down, Nathaniel,” Aunt Lydia commanded. “And tell us what brings you to see us at this ungodly hour.”
“I intend to leave London.” He looked at his aunt rather than his sister. He did not wish to see her disappointment.
His aunt gazed steadily back at him. “I see.”
“Nate!” Freesia was appalled. “The season has not even truly begun! You cannot leave. Aunt Lydia, do make him be reasonable.”
Aunt Lydia lifted her lorgnette to her eyes and peered at him. “I was told that you nearly met your death by falling chandelier. It was the very day we arrived in London.”
“Oh, surely, you don’t think—” Freesia broke off, flustered. “He never would. Never.”
Nathaniel regarded her kindly. Naturally, she would not wish to believe their own brother had attempted fratricide. He didn’t much like the thought himself and avoided it whenever possible.
The marchioness tapped her lorgnette against her palm and considered the options. “You cannot leave London, Nathaniel,” she said finally. “You must not seek refuge at Haverly Place. He will expect that. If there has been another attempt on your life, whoever caused it, you are safest here, surrounded by your family and friends. There is no one back at Haverly to protect you.”
Haverly was the family estate in Hampshire, now deserted save for the servants.
“Nate does not need protection from our brother,” Freesia muttered.
“Perhaps not,” Aunt Lydia conceded. “But the fact remains that the elder sons in the Eastwood family generally do not live long enough to inherit the title, and second sons always seem to be nearby during the unfortunate accidents. Nathaniel does well to be on his guard.”
“Oh, really, Aunt!” Freesia protested. “I suppose you also believe Grandfather poisoned Great Uncle Philip? I don’t recall a deathbed confession.”
“I don’t recall a firm denial, either,” Aunt Lydia retorted.
“Undoubtedly, he did not wish to point the finger at Uncle Philip’s wife. A wife is much more likely to poison one’s porridge, if you ask me,” Freesia said.
“If it is Nick—and I am not saying it is,” Nathaniel added hastily before Freesia could defend him once more, “he may very well have an accomplice.”
“Oh?” The marchioness peered at him through her lorgnette. “Anyone in particular?”
Nathaniel hesitated. One did not simply slander a lady, no matter how deep one’s feelings of foreboding. “Perhaps I am being overly distrustful. It may all be a coincidence.”
Aunt Lydia tapped her foot impatiently. “What was a coincidence?”
“There was a particular lady present, both at the ball when the chandelier fell and yesterday, when the girth of my saddle broke.” He flushed slightly, the embarrassment of both moments still vivid in his mind. “I do not see how she could accomplish either task, mind you. I only note
that she was there. Both times.”
“It may be a coincidence, but it is a suspicious coincidence,” Aunt Lydia agreed. “Who is the lady in question? Come now, out with it.”
Nathaniel surrendered. “Miss Alice Bursnell.”
The marchioness dropped her lorgnette in surprise. “Viscount Westsea’s daughter? Surely not.”
Now it was Nathaniel’s turn to be surprised. “You know the lady?”
Aunt Lydia gave a slow shake of her head. “I have not been introduced to Miss Bursnell, but I know the name. The Bursnells are a good family. There are two of them, are there not?”
Nathaniel wrinkled his brow. “Two what?”
“Daughters.” Aunt Lydia looked at the ceiling, searching her memory. “Yes, I believe Lady Westsea was also blessed with twins.”
“If Miss Bursnell has a twin sister, she has never mentioned her in my presence.” He frowned. One might say this was yet another coincidence.
“And Miss Bursnell is the reason you wish to flee London?” Aunt Lydia asked. When he nodded, she smiled a slow, feline smile. “My dear boy, have you never heard the saying, keep your friends close and your enemies closer?”
He shuddered. He preferred his own strategy of running away as quickly and as far as possible. It had always worked for him in the past, after all.
But he was no coward. And besides, Freesia would have his head if he left the city before her coming out ball. It was his duty as her brother to attend.
Therefore, there was no choice. He would stay in London.
Even if it meant his demise.
Chapter Ten
Things were going rather well, Alice decided. She had not seen Lord Abingdon since their ride last week, but she had a thick stack of calling cards and invitations. Surely, one of those invitations would afford her the opportunity to meet with him again.
Revenge would soon be hers.
The thought was enough to put her in a cheerful mood, despite the gray skies and intermittent drizzle. She would not allow the weather to deter her from taking in the sights of London. She had always loved history. As a child, she would beg for more lessons even after suffering through French, philosophy, and literature.
She would spend the day at Westminster Abbey, soaking up the architecture and antiquity.
She donned her new pair of Nankeen half boots—much to her aunt’s consternation. They were the latest thing, and therefore Aunt Bea heartily disapproved. Aunt Bea would go to her grave believing that a lady’s foot belonged in a satin slipper, and if the satin slipper could not withstand the weather, then neither could the lady.
If Mary, Alice’s maid, agreed with Aunt Bea about what constituted proper activities for a lady on a rainy day—and Alice suspected she very much did—she did not say. Mary did, however, sigh deeply for every wrong turn Alice led them down, and say in tones of infinite patience, “This way, my lady.”
Finally, the western towers loomed above her in all their gray, austere glory. Alice tipped her umbrella back and gazed up, mesmerized. Oh, the creations of man! Stone by stone, day after day, unrelenting labor, and, lo! A masterpiece was born.
“Can you imagine, Mary? Once all these stones were buried in the earth. And now they are…this!” She gestured with one arm toward the abbey.
Mary sniffed. “It is raining on your face, my lady.”
Alice sighed. One could not expect pragmatic Mary to exalt in the wonders of mankind’s creation.
“Seven hundred years, and it’s not yet finished,” a voice said behind them. “Perhaps it never will be. Every monarch wishes to leave his mark.”
It was a voice that was fast becoming familiar to her. A soft, deep voice, like a velvety growl.
What astounding luck!
She turned and curtsied. “Lord Abingdon. What are you doing here?”
“I come here on occasion to ponder deep questions.” He said it lightly, as a joke, but it seemed to her he was telling the truth.
“Pray, do not let us interrupt your solitude,” she said, smiling. She headed toward the entrance. It was better not to act too eager with a man so shy. She did not want to risk frightening him off. It was a miracle he had managed to untie his tongue to speak to her at all.
“May I accompany you inside? I am familiar with the abbey and would gladly offer you my knowledge.”
“Thank you. That would be delightful.” She bit her lip against the temptation to crow. Things could not have gone better if she had planned them herself. Fate had delivered him straight into her clutches. It was a sign from heaven.
He offered his arm, and she took it. She could feel his muscles through his coat. She had thought him rather too thin for his height, but lean did not mean weak, she realized now. Suddenly, she remembered that she had been wrapped in those arms after the chandelier fell. Her face felt hot against the cool air, and she lowered her head to hide her flush.
No, he wasn’t weak.
He glanced at the muddy hem of her skirt. “I hope your walk was not too uncomfortable. London can be very dirty.”
She gathered herself and said, “I don’t mind, although I daresay it took rather longer than it ought. I am horrible with direction. If Mary had not been with me, I would be halfway to France by now, and only stopped because of the Channel.”
He chuckled. “It is challenging to get one’s bearings when you can barely see the sky for the buildings. Shall we begin with the tomb of Edward the Confessor?”
“If you please, my lord.”
They entered the chapel. The shrine was a tall pillared square of marble, flanked on either end by a large candle.
“Perhaps you know that King Edward built the abbey as penance for missing a pilgrimage to Rome,” Lord Abingdon said, watching as she examined the mosaic. “His shrine is considered the center of Westminster Abbey.”
“Considered?” Alice frowned. “Is it not the actual center, then?”
“I very much doubt it, with all the additions and changes through the years, but it is called the center, and it is surely the heart of the abbey.”
“Ah.” She turned her attention to the inscription and read aloud, translating from Latin as she went. “Edward, hero and saint, preeminent in all the praises of his virtues. Dying in 1065, he ascends above the heavens. Lift up your hearts. John Feckenham, Abbot.” She gave a small nod of satisfaction. “How lovely.”
“Shall I tell you what it said before the shrine was despoiled in 1540?”
She glanced up in surprise. “Please do.”
He quoted formally, “In the thousandth year of the Lord, with the seventieth and twice hundredth with the tenth more or less complete this work was made, which Peter the Roman citizen brought to completion.” Here, Lord Abingdon paused, straightened, and placed one hand dramatically over his heart. His voice became a haughty whine. “O man, if you wish to know the cause, the king was Henry, the friend of the present saint.”
Alice gave an unladylike snort. “Humph! Wasn’t that just like a man, making it all about himself?” She glanced quickly around. Would she be struck down by lightning?
But no heavenly censure occurred. Henry III was, after all, a very distant king.
“I daresay that is the theme of all places of worship,” the viscount said drily.
She let out a hoot of startled laughter. Had the man just made a joke? She had not expected him to have a sense of humor, much less a ready wit. “Oh, my. You should not say such things.” She laughed again. “Even if it is true.”
He clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. She feigned interest in a stained glass window while she observed her nemesis. It was curious. Up close, he was ridiculously handsome, but not in the style Adelaide had always preferred. He was hardly the dandy of her sister’s dreams. His coat never fit as it ought, his hair was too long to be fashionable, and anyone with eyes could see he did not care about the knot of his cravat.
Her gaze caught on the objectionable cloth, held there by a strange longing to
smooth and straighten and…and…
Oh, heavens. She tossed the feeling aside. It was nothing more than the innate desire of all women to tidy up the messiness of men. She most certainly did not wish to touch the gentleman’s cheek or take the measure of his square jaw with her fingers.
No, she most certainly did not.
Chapter Eleven
Miss Bursnell had laughed at his joke.
To Nathaniel’s recollection, it was the first time anyone other than Wessex had ever laughed at his joke. No one ever thought him amusing. Least of all ladies.
He wished to repeat the experience, to say something clever and have her respond with that spontaneous mirth, but his tongue suddenly swelled to twice its normal size and his brain filled with cotton.
She was watching him, he realized, likely wondering why he had not spoken a single word in the last five minutes.
The back of his neck prickled with sweat. He should say something. But what? He looked at the lady. She looked back steadily.
Dear God. Say something.
He offered his arm again, rather desperately throwing himself on the mercy of convention. “Shall we continue to the coronation chair?”
“By all means.” She took his arm and they set off, her maid following several steps behind.
“I come here, sometimes, to think,” he said as they entered the throne room.
“Do you?” The heels of her boots clicked pleasantly against the floor as they walked. “I have always wanted to see the Stone of Scone.”
“It is a good story,” he said, though admittedly, it did hit a bit close to home for his comfort.
“Tell it to me.”
He looked at her, startled. “Surely, you already know it?”
“I wish to hear it from you.” Her eyes did not move from his face. “We all have our own way of telling a story, do we not, Lord Abingdon? What you say, what you do not say, these things are more about you than about the story itself. That is what is interesting to me.”
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