Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  She threw her arms around him, relieved when he wrapped his arms around her, too.

  “I hope you’ll enjoy it,” he said into her hair.

  “Oh, I will. I was so keen to try it, the parcel delivery men were forced to eject me from the parlor.”

  The world seemed brighter this morning, as though the Queen’s Bedchamber last night had been no more than a bad dream. She breathed deep of the fragrant air, reaching to touch a bunch of grapes. “How fat they look!”

  “In a month, they’ll be ready for harvest.”

  She began walking along the row, touching a plant here and there. “The vines seem so sturdy. Their trunks are so wide.”

  “Compared to Griffin’s vines, you mean?” Sounding amused, he followed behind. “A hundred years from now, their trunks will be wide as well.”

  “If he can make his vineyard pay well enough to keep it.”

  “He can make it pay. With the duties raised during wartime to nearly twenty shillings a gallon, French wine is no longer affordable on a moderate income. People will be happy enough to stock their cellars with what Griffin produces.”

  “If it tastes as good as yours does, they will.” She paused to pluck a grape and sniff it. “Is this a certain kind of grape?”

  “Doubtless, although I confess I don’t know the variety. In the old records they’re noted only as English sweet-water grapes.”

  “Well, they make truly wonderful wine,” she said, popping the fruit into her mouth.

  “I’m glad you think so,” he said and added teasingly, “as long as you drink only half a glass at a time.” He shot a glance to the other man. “I’m afraid I’m not finished here.”

  Swallowing the sweet flesh, she nodded. “I must leave, anyway. Ernest will be waiting with our horses. We’re going to visit with the final former servant. Lizzy, her name is.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t.” A hawk wheeled overhead, and a sudden breeze kicked up, making the vines rustle around them. She saw something twitch in Tris’s jaw. “I sleepwalked again last night.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, meaning it. He looked haunted. “Have you suffered these incidents so closely together in the past?”

  “Never. It’s always been weeks—if not months or years—between episodes. But this morning, after locking myself in that room, I woke to find the window wide open.” He sounded totally disgusted that his plan hadn’t worked. “The lock kept me from sleepwalking around the house, so I sleepwalked outside instead.”

  “Did you wake up outside?”

  “No, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t go out. In the past, I’ve often ambled around and ended up back in my bed.”

  “But the Queen’s Bedchamber is upstairs. You would have injured yourself climbing out that window. I’m sure you simply opened it for fresh air.” When she saw that he was going to argue, she put a hand on his arm. “Let me go see Lizzy. And then this might be over, and maybe you’ll be able to sleep.”

  He just looked at her for a while. Just looked. And it made something tighten in her chest, because every time she thought they were making progress, stepping forward together, it seemed they took two steps back.

  But she had to go see Lizzy. Her sisters were being ostracized already, and this was her last chance to discover information that might lead to a solution for them all. Her last chance to prove to Tris that he wasn’t dangerous.

  “You may not be happy with what you learn from Lizzy,” he finally said, the warning sounding bitter on his tongue. “And it’s not going to change anything.” Then he turned and left her, his shoulders looking tense beneath his dark blue coat as he strode away.

  The hornbeam arch didn’t seem nearly as delightful when she traversed it in the opposite direction. And at the other end, Vincent, Hastings, and Mrs. Oliver all stood waiting for her.

  “May I help you?” she asked, puzzled.

  Hastings glanced at the other two and then spoke for all three. “May we have a word with you, Lady Hawkridge?”

  “Of course.”

  “Lady Hawkridge,” Hastings repeated, then stopped.

  “Yes?”

  “We’re concerned,” Mrs. Oliver continued. Her kindly chocolate eyes did look concerned. “These mishaps that keep occurring…”

  “We fear that if someone did indeed murder the last Lord Hawkridge,” Vincent hurriedly finished for her, “he may be trying to kill you now to stop you from finding him.”

  Alexandra blinked, taken aback by the mere idea. It hadn’t, of course, occurred to them that Tris might be causing the mishaps while sleepwalking, since other than Vincent—and she was certain he’d keep Tris’s secret—they probably had no knowledge of his night wanderings. But it had never occurred to her that it could be anyone else.

  For a moment, her heart raced.

  Then she told herself not to be ridiculous. “I appreciate your concern,” she said carefully, “but I truly believe both incidents were accidents.”

  “But what if they weren’t?” Hastings asked.

  “Everyone has assured me the marquess’s death was natural,” she reminded him.

  “But what if it wasn’t?” Mrs. Oliver blurted. “What if there’s a murderer among us? Should you continue your investigation, even worse could happen.”

  It was obvious that recent events had them nervous and suspicious. Even of each other. Mrs. Oliver was looking at Hastings. Hastings was looking at Mrs. Oliver.

  And they were both looking at Vincent.

  “We brought this up for your own good,” Vincent said now, his gaze steadfast. He had too much dignity to shrivel under their scrutiny. “We worry for you. If you would quit—”

  “I cannot,” she interrupted firmly. “You’re all dears to worry for my safety, but I will not stop asking questions until every avenue has been exhausted.”

  The three of them exchanged glances and subtle sighs.

  “Do please be careful, then,” Hastings finally said.

  “I will, I assure you. Thank you for coming to me with your concerns. I consider myself very lucky to be surrounded by such caring people.”

  She watched them walk off, praying that she was right and they were wrong. She felt a little shaky. The thought of Tris attacking her was one thing—it was too ludicrous to believe. But the thought of someone else…

  She didn’t believe that, either, she decided firmly.

  And if it turned out to be true…well, that possibility had its advantages.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  The quiet ride with Ernest had done little to calm Alexandra’s nerves.

  She was still shaking when she dismounted in front of Lizzy’s small cottage. For the second day in a row, Hawkridge’s villagers had stared at her as she rode through. Between that, defying Tris, and learning she might be the target of a murder plot, she felt like a wreck.

  Walking up Lizzy’s pretty flower-lined path, she half hoped this interview would lead nowhere, because that would mean this would all be over. No, she thought with an inward sigh…she didn’t really hope that.

  Though perhaps she felt she should.

  The woman who answered the door had soft white hair, kind blue eyes, and a pronounced stoop. “Yes, dear?”

  “Might you be Lizzy?” Alexandra knew that, unlike the others, Lizzy had retired rather than leaving for a new position. Still, she hadn’t expected someone quite so old. Lizzy looked ninety if she were a day. “I’m Lady Hawkridge.”

  “A new Lady Hawkridge!” Lizzy’s weathered face crinkled with delight. “Come in, my lady, come in.”

  Alexandra waved to Ernest where he was patiently waiting with their horses, then stepped inside. The cottage was a single room with a living area on one side and a bed on the other. “Would you care for a sugar cake?” she asked Lizzy, pulling one from her silver basket.

  “Why, thank you.” The woman pulled a chair out from the simple oak table and gestured for Alexandra to sit. “I will have one, if I may.”

  “I’ve be
en told you were employed at Hawkridge Hall when the last marquess died.”

  “And for sixty-two years before that.” She munched on the cake, seating herself across from Alexandra.

  “My husband, the current marquess—”

  “I remember your husband, dear.” Lizzy licked crumbs off her fingers. “Bless you. It’s long past time that poor boy’s innocence was proven.”

  For what must have been the dozenth time, Alexandra’s hopes soared. “Did you see anything that night or morning? Anyone suspicious? Have you reason to believe anyone at Hawkridge Hall may have wanted the marquess dead?”

  “Alas, no.” Lizzy’s hand inched toward the basket. “But someone must know something. Whom have you talked to so far?”

  “Everyone,” Alexandra said with a sigh, handing her another sugar cake.

  “Names, my lady. I want names.”

  Lizzy devoured two more sugar cakes while Alexandra recited the list.

  “How about Maude?” Lizzy asked when she was done.

  “Maude?”

  “The marquess’s old nurse—after his wife and children passed on, she was the closest person to him. If anyone saw anything that night, it’d have been she. She left very soon after he passed…I wonder if she’s still alive.” She reached for yet another sugar cake, her face wrinkling so much in contemplation that her eyes all but disappeared. “Maude was old as dirt even then.”

  Alexandra felt an urge to laugh, from some mixture of elation at her lucky break and amusement at hearing this wrinkled old woman call someone else old as dirt. “Do you know where Maude went, by any chance?”

  “When she left, she was headed for Nutgrove. Maude was born there, and she said that there she’d die.”

  Alexandra could only hope she hadn’t already.

  She gave the rest of the sugar cakes to Lizzy as a thank-you and hurried back outside, marveling at her good fortune. Not only was Maude her most promising lead yet, but she’d passed through Nutgrove on the way here. In mere minutes, she might be with Maude, learning the answers that would cure all her ills…

  Giddy, she slanted Ernest a glance. “Are you up for a good gallop?”

  “If my lady pleases,” he said stoically.

  She mounted, shoved the basket handle over her arm, and lifted the reins.

  Tris had an excellent stable, and she had borrowed a fine mare. She flew over the countryside, the horse’s hooves pounding the dirt road at a measured, rhythmic clip. Her hat tumbled back, held on only by its ribbons. She laughed, enjoying the fresh air, the light wind, the renewed hope.

  She didn’t hear a snap. There was nothing to warn her. Her saddle just slid sideways and off—and she screamed as she went with it.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Clucking her tongue, Peggy placed a glass of water by Alexandra’s bedside. “Whatever did you learn from old Lizzy that made you ride off so recklessly?”

  “I don’t wish to speak of it now. My head hurts.”

  “Hmmph.” Peggy leaned to plump her pillows, which Tristan suspected only made Alexandra’s pain worse. “Serves you right for going off without me there to watch out for you. If you ask me, you should go home until all these dangerous happenings cease. I vow and swear, if you ask me—“

  “No one asked you,” Tristan interrupted, rising from one of the striped chairs. He’d be vowing and swearing if he had to listen to her a single moment longer. “Leave us. Lady Hawkridge needs her rest.”

  “Well!” Peggy said and took herself out the door, closing it more forcefully than necessary.

  Alexandra winced at the resulting bang. “You could be a bit kinder to her.”

  “Why in blazes do you put up with her?”

  “She has her moods, but she’s nice and helpful most of the time.” She threw off her covers. “I’ll have a talk—”

  “Stay in bed!”

  “I’m fine, Tris.” As though to prove it, she sat up and swung her legs off the side. “A little bumped and bruised, is all—”

  “You’re not fine.” He walked closer and slid his hands into her hair, probing gently. His fingers met a hard, raised lump. “No wonder your head hurts.”

  His heart had nearly stopped when Ernest rode up with Alexandra, scraped and bleeding, the two of them sharing the same horse with her mare tied behind. Thankfully, most of her wounds were superficial and had cleaned up nicely, but he cringed to see the multitude of bruises just beginning to color.

  And that was only on the parts of her he could see—the rest was concealed beneath Juliana’s hideous nightgown.

  He stepped back. “You took several years off my life. You’re going to be the death of me, Alexandra, if you don’t manage to kill yourself first. Or if I don’t manage to kill you,” he added in a tone of disgust.

  “Don’t start that again. You were miles away when this happened.”

  “Leather straps don’t simply split all by themselves. Someone must have sabotaged the saddle sometime before you left.” He paced over to the fireplace and leaned on the mantel, feeling drained. “Like me, last night, when I climbed out that window.”

  “Leather can weaken over time,” she argued. “And you didn’t climb out a window. The room felt overwarm in the night, so you got up, opened the window, and went back to bed.” A thread of exasperation—or perhaps desperation—tinged her voice. “Must you make everything more complicated than it has to be?”

  But it couldn’t be as simple as she was claiming. This incident fit the pattern perfectly. The window had been wide open in the morning, and he had no memory of opening it. And, once again, his wife had been injured by an accident he’d had clear opportunity to arrange.

  “Come sit by me,” she said after a tense moment of silence. She patted the mattress beside her.

  He crossed the room and sat, but not too close.

  He felt too guilty to touch her.

  “You would never do anything to hurt me, Tris,” she said quietly. “If I believe that, why can’t you?”

  Because his nights were voids in his memory. Because too many coincidences were impossible to ignore. Because someone else had died on a night when he knew he’d wandered.

  He sighed. “This has to stop.”

  “I can’t stop. That would mean dooming my sisters to dreary spinsterhood and ourselves to a troubled marriage.”

  “You must stop. Hastings came to me after you left, along with Mrs. Oliver and Vincent. They said they speak for the entire staff and are concerned that someone may be after you.”

  “They’re just being overcautious,” she insisted stubbornly.

  “What if they’re right, Alexandra? Our own servants are worried for your safety. Have you any idea how panicked that made me while I waited for your return?” He was surprised he had any hair left, he’d run his hands through it so many times. “And then you rode up, all battered and bloody—”

  He cut himself off and lurched to his feet, moving away from her. He needed to calm down. She was injured, and her heart was in the right place. He didn’t want to yell at her, he just wanted to make her understand.

  Leaning on the mantel, he took several deep breaths before continuing as calmly as he knew how. “Someone could be after you in order to stop this investigation, or it could be me during my stressful, sleepwalking nights. Either way, you must cease.”

  “I won’t,” she said stubbornly.

  It seemed she said everything stubbornly. He’d never met anyone quite as stubborn as Alexandra. That made it very hard to maintain his hard-won calm.

  “They’re looking at Vincent,” he said, turning around to watch her reaction. “He’s the only one who was new at the time, and his skin is darker than theirs, and they’re looking at him.”

  “I’m sorry for that.” She truly did look sorry. “Is he overwrought?”

  He shook his head. “I’m overwrought.”

  “I’m sorry for that, too. But can’t you see, Tris? If these three incidents were accidents, there’s no reason
for me to discontinue my efforts. And if they weren’t accidents, that’s even more reason for me to persevere. Because if someone is after me, that would mean your uncle was, in fact, murdered—and if there’s a killer, that means we can find him and clear your name.”

  Tristan stared at her, mute, unable to believe his own ears. He was stunned by her convoluted logic.

  Was he supposed to be grateful she was putting her life on the line in order to prove his innocence?

  Well, he wasn’t.

  He finally found his voice. “Am I to understand you actually think it’s good news that someone might be trying to kill you?”

  “Precisely.”

  He hadn’t really been expecting a different answer, but he flinched just the same. He wasn’t sure which would be worse: to have Alexandra’s investigation prove he’d committed the murder himself, or to have some other murderer cut short her search by cutting short her life. Either possibility was too appalling to contemplate.

  And that wasn’t even taking Vincent into account. If this continued, people would be looking for a scapegoat. The man could be prosecuted and convicted regardless of the truth—a Jamaican ex-slave was unlikely to find justice in this world.

  But she was hurt, he reminded himself. And so he said very calmly, but firmly, ”You must stop.” And then it occurred to him: ”Why are we even arguing about this? Wasn’t Lizzy your final witness? You interviewed Lizzy, and now you’re finished.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, and she really did look sorry again. “But Lizzy gave me another name. I’m not going to stop until I’ve talked to Maude.”

  “Maude.” A vivid picture of a sweet old lady flooded his mind. How odd. He hadn’t thought of the woman in years. Not at all. It was as though she’d evaporated from his memory.

  “You knew her?” Alexandra asked.

  “Uncle Harold’s old nurse. His nanny, actually, when he was a child. She was kind.” Talking about her was making him uneasy, though he couldn’t think why. He’d liked Maude. “She was his children’s nanny after that. And when he lost heart and fell ill, she nursed him all over again.”