Lady of Fortune

by Mary Jo Putney

  Resolutely she turned away and went to her small room to dress before returning to build up the fire. As usual, her mother had had an aphorism that suited the present circumstances: It is unfair to hold a man to promises made just before, during, or after making love.

  Yet it would be so fatally easy to take Alex at his word, to accept his offer of marriage. As she went about feeding the horses and boiling water for tea, she struggled to discipline her unruly thoughts. It was very noble of the viscount to offer his good name, but she really had no desire to see him martyr himself. There would be a devil of a scandal if he threw over Sybil Debenham, and it would likely ruin his naval career. A viscount jilting a lady to marry a servant? Alex would never live it down. His brother and sister would suffer for it too; it might destroy Annabelle’s chance for a respectable marriage, and the disgrace would follow Jonathan into the Army.

  At this point her logic always faltered. She could still be considered a countess, in spite of the actions of the French Assembly, and if he loved her, perhaps they could have brazened it out. But countess or not, Christa would be tainted by her time belowstairs, and she was still penniless and without family. Society would more easily forgive a man who married a demimondaine than one who married a servant.

  And Alex had said nothing of love. Guilt and duty were a poor foundation for marriage, and he would soon resent Christa for what she had cost him. On the whole, she would rather be dead than the object of his anger or hatred.

  The pale northern sky was clear, and the wind had dropped to near zero. The sea was calm and the ebbing tide should render the causeway passable within two hours or so. Bob and Jamie would be back soon; she refused to consider the alternative. The chores and a leisurely breakfast kept her tolerably composed until finally, blessedly, the men returned with the doctor.

  Alex was still sleeping soundly. The doctor took a poke or two at his side, but saw no reason to wake him when he was so obviously recovering. The nursing staff withdrew to the kitchen, where Christa announced her intention of returning to the Orchard to allay Annabelle’s fears. Willson would escort her back and return with a carriage that could bring his lordship home when he had recovered sufficiently to travel. They left quickly, before the tide could start to cover the causeway again. The weather was bitter cold but clear, and the scouring winds had blown enough snow from the roads so that travel was possible.

  The long ride home gave Christa ample opportunity to firm her resolve. She must leave the Kingsley household before Alex returned. Her clarity of mind would not hold up under another offer of marriage; she was sure that Alex’s sense of duty was much stronger than her good sense, but if she accepted him, they would both end up regretting it. Christa sighed, her breath making a white cloud in front of her as the horse between her legs lifted its head at the nearness of its stable.

  Logic was the very devil, she decided; without it, she might have married Alex in the hope that he would grow to love her. But she remembered the haut monde too well to believe in such a miracle happening. The contempt of his own class, the loss of his career, and the suffering of his sister and brother would weigh too heavily.

  At the Orchard, Annabelle was overwhelmed with relief at the news of Alex’s recovery, and was barely restrained from returning in the carriage with Willson. Sybil was also pleased—if the viscount was going to kill himself rescuing servants, better he did it after she was safely Lady Kingsley.

  Christa found a letter waiting from her cousin Suzanne de Savery, announcing that she and her Henry had decided not to wait till summer to marry. The letter gave her an idea, and in the evening she told Annabelle that there was a family emergency—she was vague about what kind—and she must depart immediately.

  Annabelle was shocked and unhappy. “I knew that you would be leaving, but I had not thought it would be so soon.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Annabelle. One of my cousins needs me and I must go as soon as possible.” Christa’s voice was firm, because family was an inarguable reason for a change of plans.

  Annabelle sighed. “Everyone is throwing problems at you. I hope your cousin’s situation improves soon. Though I know you will not come back to me.”

  “No, Miss Annabelle. I am sorry.”

  Annabelle had been lying on a sofa in her room. She stood now and went to her dressing table and fumbled in her drawer. Turning, she offered Christa a handful of gold coins.

  Christa gasped. “Twenty pounds! I can’t accept this.”

  Annabelle was brisk. “Of course you can. You have served me and my family far beyond the limits of duty. I’m only sorry that I have no more money here.” She stepped forward then to give her maid a good-bye hug. With a catch in her voice she said, “I’ll miss you.”

  Christa felt a lump in her own throat. “I shall miss you too—all of you.” With a slightly crooked smile she said, “I will write down the recipe for the pale rouge before I go.” She thought a moment, then said, “The chambermaid, Maggie, in London. I think she would make you a good abigail.”

  “I’ll write and ask if she would like the position. If so, perhaps she can come down by coach. It will give us time to become accustomed to each other before the Season begins.”

  Annabelle was proud of how matter-of-fact she sounded. She was fighting down a sense of betrayal that the French girl was leaving, even though she knew it was selfish. Christa had her own life to live, and picking up the pieces after various Kingsley dilemmas must have been tedious.

  Christa gave one last elfin smile. “You will do very well, miss.” Then she slipped away.

  Christa went to the library to write down the directions for making the cosmetic. It gave her a good excuse to be busy with pen and paper, and she knew she must leave a note for Alex. It took a long time to write, and she carefully burned the false starts. She had no desire that anyone in the household guess what had happened.

  She sealed the note, scratching the initial C in the wax, then left it in Alex’s desk, where he would find it quickly after his return. A small pale object on the desk caught her eye. When Christa discovered that it was the sea-polished pebble she had given him the first night he had kissed her, she nearly wept. Love was a watery emotion, she decided with disgust.

  Alex awoke with a delightful sense of well-being. It was late afternoon, and he could see Fiske moving around in the kitchen. The valet brought in food when he saw his master stirring. “How are you feeling, my lord?”

  “Wonderful. Where is Christa?”

  If the valet was surprised at the question, he didn’t show it. “She and Willson went back to the estate. Miss Annabelle had been poorly, and Christa didn’t want to leave her alone too long. And everyone there has been worrying about you.”

  Alex sighed regretfully. It would be days now until he saw her again. But there was no help for it, so he tucked into his soup, pleased to see that he had been promoted to broth with barley, onions, and beef in it.

  The doctor had recommended Lord Kingsley not be moved for at least a week, and in deference to his judgment, Alex waited four whole days before heading home. He was still infuriatingly weak and there was pain in his side, but he could walk on his own if he was judicious about it. He was amazed when he remembered the passionate interlude with Christa; it was obvious that loving was not bound by the normal physical restrictions.

  As soon as Alex reached the Orchard, he went to his sister’s room. Annabelle had not expected him so soon, and she hurled herself into his arms with an enthusiasm that almost landed them both on the floor. He sat down rather quickly. After the initial babble of greeting had subsided, the viscount asked, “Where’s Christa?”

  Annabelle looked surprised. “You didn’t know? She is gone. There was a family emergency of some sort. She took the coach back to London the day after her return from Stornaway.”

  “What!” Alex exploded.

  His sister was startled by his vehemence. “It was sudden, but she had been planning on leaving in the spring anyhow.” At
Alex’s black expression, she said defensively, “Why are you so upset? I could hardly keep her here against her will.”

  Alex would have gotten up and paced if he hadn’t felt so shaky. “I am upset, as you so kindly understate it, because I want to marry her. Where did she go?”

  His question was ignored as Annabelle reeled under the bomb he had just exploded. Her eyes were wide in horrified shock when she gasped, “Marry her? You would marry a servant?” She was staring at him as if he had just grown a second head or declared that he wished to assassinate the king.

  In the face of his sister’s reaction, Alex did get up and pace, levering himself up on the chair back. “Yes, dammit, I want to marry her!”

  He was irrationally furious, and it was a struggle not to take it out on his sister as she regarded him with wide-eyed disbelief. He caught hold of his temper and said as calmly as he could manage, “She is intelligent, beautiful, kind, and more of a lady than half the doxies in the ton. And I’m in love with her.”

  “But a servant …” Annabelle shook her head in bafflement.

  “Damnation, Belle, you at least should understand, even if no one else does! You know her quality. And look at how much she has done for you. How much of your style and confidence do you owe to her? Why, you’d be married to that loose-fish Loaming if it hadn’t been for her!”

  Her eyes filling with tears, Annabelle cried, “Alex, please! I am trying to understand. It took you months to fall in love with her. Can you not give me a few minutes to accept it?”

  Alex dropped back into the chair and buried his face in his hands. After a long silence he said, “I’m sorry, Belle. I shouldn’t have ripped up at you.” He raised his head with the trace of a smile. “I think I fell in love within five minutes of meeting Christa, but it has taken me the longer part of the year to realize it.” His voice was almost inaudible as he added, “Now that I have realized, I can’t imagine life without her.”

  Annabelle absorbed what her brother said, the tone as much as the words. He was right, Christa had qualities rare in any class, and she had been a wise and generous friend to all the Kingsleys. If Alex truly loved her, his sister would give him whatever support she could. Still, there would be complications, unpleasant ones. Starting with the worst, she asked, “What about Miss Debenham?”

  “I will break the engagement, thereby earning a reputation as jilt and faithless despoiler of innocence. Then, if Christa will marry me, I will gain additional fame as a lunatic and a traitor to my class.” He rubbed his temples wearily. “It’s unforgivably selfish of me to force you and Jon to pay the price for my scandalous behavior. The only compensations are that you will both probably prefer Christa to Sybil Debenham as a sister-in-law, and the scandal will die down eventually.”

  “Do you think Christa might not accept?” Annabelle said in surprise. Would a servant really refuse a lord who was rich, handsome, and in love with her?

  “You’ll notice that she is nowhere in sight,” her brother said dryly. “The day after I proposed, she ran away. I suspect I don’t suit her notions of propriety. Your abigail has pride that would put a Spanish hidalgo to shame.”

  Alex pushed himself up from his chair. “I’m leaving for London in the morning. The sooner I go after her, the better the chance of finding her. If I can find her, I think I can persuade her to accept me.”

  Annabelle wondered if he were strong enough to go haring across the countryside in the dead of winter, but wisely kept silent. She doubted that any comment of hers would make a difference.

  Alex sent his excuses to the Debenhams, claiming to be too fatigued to join them for dinner. Since he wasn’t up to the royal scene Sybil would undoubtedly subject him to, he would break the engagement after the trip to London. He did take a quick look at his correspondence to see if there was anything too vital to ignore, and it was there he found the note, a bold C scratched in the wax, and perhaps a hint of rosemary about it.

  My lord Alex:

  Your offer to me was the product of a generous impulse, and I shall always honor you for it. But you need not sacrifice your good name and your career out of a misguided belief that you have injured me. Au contraire, I shall remember you with kindness all my life, as I hope you shall remember me.

  Christa

  Alex leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes wretchedly. There was nothing the least loverlike in the message, and she would never marry him if she felt no more than kindness. But there had seemed to be an abundance of loving when they were together; perhaps he could persuade Christa that he cared enough for both of them.

  Ignoring Fiske’s voluble expressions of disapproval, he left for London at dawn the next day.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It was a damply chill night in Berkshire, with a whisker of moon giving occasional illumination to the road. A traveler unfamiliar with the terrain would have had difficulty following the road to Radcliffe Hall, but the rider cantering up to the wide marble stairs had no such problem. Tethering his horse to a convenient stone lion, he skipped up the steps and wielded the heavy brass knocker.

  Company was unexpected on such a night, and the bewigged footman answering the door was distinctly unwelcoming as the tall visitor brushed by into the warmth of the hall. With angry hauteur the servant said, “The Earl of Radcliffe is not receiving callers.”

  The visitor glanced at him with laughter in his eyes. “No? You haven’t been here very long, have you?”

  The footman said stiffly, “I have been in the earl’s employ over a year.” His eyes raking the worn riding dress of the visitor, he added with all the arrogance of a peer’s servant, “I doubt his lordship will have any time for the likes of you.”

  The man seemed vastly amused. “See that my horse is taken care of. I’ll find Lewis myself. I expect at this hour he’s in his study.” Pulling off cloak and hat, he tossed them at the footman, whose automatic grab left him off balance.

  The fuming footman was left holding the damp garments and glaring after the man’s retreating blond head and broad shoulders. He considered forcibly stopping the insolent devil but the man did seem to know his way around the house, and he had an air that made one think twice before accosting him. Since he had already disappeared into the study, the flunky decided to call a groom for the horse. His lordship would no doubt let it be known if he wanted the intruder removed.

  Lewis Radleigh was working in his study, grateful for the minutiae of estate business that kept thought at bay. Eventually he would stop. Perhaps a brandy would help him sleep. At the sound of footsteps he looked up with a frown—the servants should know better than to disturb him.

  The sight of the tall figure approaching caused such a shock that for a moment the earl thought he was dreaming. His quill falling unheeded, he rose to his feet and circled the desk, unable to believe his eyes. There had been so many ghosts … In a disbelieving voice he gasped, “Charles?”

  “In the flesh,” was the cheerful reply. “Sorry not to give you more warning.” As Lewis wavered and seemed likely to fall, Charles stepped forward quickly and grabbed the older man’s arm. “Lewis, are you all right? I would have sent a message from London but it seemed quicker to come myself.”

  Lewis put a faltering hand out. If this was a ghost, it was a remarkably solid one. He looked into the unforgettable gray eyes that now showed affection and concern. With a spontaneous motion foreign to his reserved nature he put his arm around his nephew in a gesture more eloquent than words.

  Some time passed before Lewis had regained enough self-possession to speak. Releasing his nephew, he rang the bell for a servant and sat down in one of the wing chairs. “It’s been two years, Charles. We all thought you dead. In the name of heaven, where have you been?”

  His voice was strained, and he examined the younger man closely. Charles looked as if considerably more than two years had passed. A livid scar on his temple curved up into his hair, and he was thinner, with a wolflike toughness that was new. Gone was the lig
hthearted young mischief-maker—his nephew now looked equal to anything.

  The footman Lewis had rung for entered quickly, as if he had been waiting outside the door. “Yes, my lord? Shall I remove this … person for you?”

  While Charles laughed, Lewis said coldly, “You are speaking of Charles Radleigh, the master of the house. The seventh Earl of Radcliffe has returned.” As the footman gawped, Lewis glanced at his nephew and asked, “I assume you would like something to eat, Charles?”

  “Perceptive as always. And I think I’ll help myself to some brandy while we wait. Would you care for some? You look like you could use it.” Without waiting for a reply, Charles poured brandy into two goblets and handed one to his uncle before sitting in the opposite chair.

  The footman beat a horrified retreat. This would set the cat among the pigeons downstairs, and no mistake. As for himself, he thought glumly, he might be in need of a new job.

  Charles stretched, crossing his long legs with an air of contentment. “Lord, it’s good to be home. If I never see cabbage soup again, it will be too soon.”

  Lewis warmed the glass between his hands and stared at his nephew, still disbelieving in his existence. “What happened? The French announced they had killed you, that you were a British spy. They even sent back your watch and identification papers, along with an empty wallet.”

  Charles took a sip of the brandy and started to explain. “My sister will have told you about the attack as we were attempting to escape?”

  At Lewis’ nod, he said, “As nearly as we could deduce later, my mother and her servants, Anne and Jean-Claude Bohnet, were attacked by bandits. Mme. Bohnet was wounded in the shoulder and screamed. Having more hair than wit, I went charging to the rescue and took a bullet along the side of my head.”

  He fingered the white scar on his temple thoughtfully and added, “A little more to the right and you would still be the earl. Do you mind, Lewis? Losing all this?” He watched his uncle keenly as he waved one hand at the richness around them.