Hadrian

by Grace Burrowes

  “My strength?”

  “It’s officially summer, dear heart. If we set sail within a week, we’ll have plenty of time to get to Cumberland and back here before fall.”

  “We will?” Harold bit into his tart and wondered if the Danes grew more flavorful raspberries, or if everything tasted better when shared with a loved one.

  “You love those two, and you worry about them. The engagement is all well and good, but a nudge in the right direction is in order. We’ll sail no later than Friday.”

  “Thursday. We’ll sail on Thursday. Ring for more tarts, would you?”

  * * *

  “You’re spending a lot of time at Landover,” Lily observed as she rubbed at a patterned fruit knife with a flannel cloth.

  Avis had declared it time to sort through the kitchen silver, because the day fast approached when she’d take up residence in the dower house. Hadrian wasn’t in favor of the plan, because she’d be more isolated with a much smaller staff and only Lily to sound the alarm if something went amiss.

  Assuming she didn’t sack Lily first.

  “I am engaged to the Landover heir,” Avis replied mildly, though she’d told Hadrian engaged was all they would be unless they got to the bottom of the threatening notes. He’d kissed her, patiently, the wretch. “I had best acquaint myself with Hadrian’s situation. Service for eight should be ample.”

  Lily sent her the most fleeting look, but Avie read both pity and the history fueling it: In their years together, Lily had never seen more than five others at the same table as Lady Avis Portmaine, and those five would be family, Fenwick, the local vicar and his wife, or Lily herself.

  Where Avis might have felt shame and bewilderment even a few weeks ago, Lily’s subtle dramatics now filled her with a satisfying sense of exasperation.

  “You needn’t look so woebegone, Lily. I do have some good news.”

  Lily held the fruit knife up to the sunlight streaming in the kitchen window. “We’ve little enough of that.”

  The shearing had been abundant, the hay harvest equally good, and both accomplished without a major injury. Was Lily truly so far above the realities of a country existence that she disregarded those blessings?

  “I’m sending Fen down to Manchester to do some shopping.”

  “For?”

  Avis waved a hand. “This house, my trousseau, some items Blessings needs. The hay is off, the crops are thriving, the foals, lambs and calves are on the ground, and it’s a good time for him to be useful elsewhere. He’s happy to go. He’s bored watching the corn ripen and in need of diversion. I don’t suppose you’d like to go with him?”

  “Are you joking?” Lily resumed polishing the knife, though it was spotless and gleaming. “The last place I’d like to be is in that man’s company.”

  “Any particular reason?” Avis kept the question casual, but it had plagued her ever since Hadrian had raised it.

  “He’s far too forward,” Lily spat. “With you, me, everybody. The man’s an ill-bred, godless, presuming offense to everything genteel and decent.”

  He offended none save Lily that Avis could see. “Do you protest too much, Lily? He’s an exceedingly handsome ill-bred, presuming offense, as offenses go, and he works very hard. He’d provide well.”

  Fen was also not godless, though his piety was of the rustic variety.

  “You do jest now.” Lily set the fruit knife in the velvet-lined silver chest. “You’re joking if you think I could consider matrimony with that man, if you think any woman should be so burdened.”

  “Is it Fen you detest,” Avis pressed, for Lily had given her no real answer, “or holy matrimony?”

  “Both, if you must know.” Lily tied up the laces of the cloth covering to the silver chest, the trailing ends of her bow matching exactly for length. “Marriage is supposed to be for the protection of women, but married women die in childbed more than unmarried women.”

  “Because unmarried women aren’t to be in childbed at all?”

  Lily gave her a look that suggested she knew Avis had crossed a certain line willingly with Hadrian. She’d crossed it joyously, rapturously even.

  “Can you be happy married to Mr. Bothwell?”

  Yes—if Hadrian could be safe married to her. “One can’t know these things until one is married. Were I to marry him, I think I’d be happy.”

  “You’re sending Fenwick shopping for your trousseau, but you haven’t set a date.” Lily was asking if Avis had set a date with Hadrian, which was none of Lily’s business.

  “I’d like my brothers and sister to be at the wedding,” Avis said, which was true enough. “Alex has recently changed positions and likely can’t come north for a while.”

  “You’re marrying the next thing to a title, Avis, if you marry. When Mr. Bothwell sends a polite note to your sister’s employer, she’ll be put on the first coach north.”

  Lily spoke with an odd authority, considering she’d never met Alex.

  “Lady Alexandra has accepted employment in the home of a widower with two boys, and she wouldn’t want to leave her charges so early into their getting acquainted.”

  “You’re her only sister, and you’re getting married—if you marry, but you don’t seem convinced of that outcome yourself.”

  Another subtle question.

  “I’m not.” Avis filled the tea kettle from the oven well, set it on the hob and leaned back against the kitchen counter. “Hadrian is a good man and deserves so much better.”

  “You are the one who deserves better,” Lily retorted. “When I think of you having to endure his attentions after what you’ve been through.” She shuddered, eyes downcast, then raised her chin, all pretence of the genteel English rose banished. “You don’t have to marry him, Avis. You don’t.”

  “I know.”

  But she wanted to. More and more, she wanted to.

  * * *

  “This is for you.” Fenwick tossed a scrap of paper onto Hadrian’s desk.

  Hadrian unrolled it carefully. “You’ve read it?”

  “That’s the odd part about affixing letters to little birds,” Fenwick said, helping himself to a drink from the sideboard in Hadrian’s library. “There’s no address on the outside, no seal. One must read the contents to determine the intended recipient, and rather than have any old groom or footman read it, I insist the notes be brought to me with the seal intact.”

  Suggesting—testily—that Fen hadn’t read the note itself.

  “Benjamin Portmaine is concerned that Collins may be larking about in the south, but he doesn’t know the man’s whereabouts for certain,” Hadrian murmured, setting the paper aside.

  “If Benjamin can’t find Collins, then Collins must truly be up to no good.” Fen held up the decanter in invitation—quite the hospitable sort, was Fen.

  Hadrian rose from his desk, the ramifications of Benjamin’s note ruining an otherwise lovely summer day. “Just a tot will do.”

  Fen passed him two generous fingers. “You must keep a particularly close watch on Avis for the next few weeks. I’m sent off on a fool’s errand, supposedly because we’ve finally reached that part of summer when brutal hard work isn’t the order of every waking day.”

  “You’re going somewhere?” Hadrian knew damned good and well what awaited Fen, and had argued long and hard with Avis about it when she’d awoken from hours of unbroken slumber. Hadrian took his drink to the French doors and tried to let the peace of the gardens fill his soul.

  “I’m off to Manchester shopping for your bride.” Hadrian heard Fenwick amble over to the table that held the family bible, which some helpful soul had once again left open to the Twenty-Third Psalm. “I’m to sell our cast-off furniture and otherwise absent myself from Lady Avie’s side.”

  “Who else could she send?”

  “Look at me, Bothwell.”

  Hadrian waited several heartbeats for form’s sake, then swiveled his gaze from rose bushes slightly past their peak to the glower Fen tu
rned on him.

  “I myself showed you the similarity in the penmanship. I didn’t send that note.”

  “I believe you. The evidence points to you, but my instincts rebel against such a conclusion.” When it came to who was lying and who was telling the truth, a former vicar’s instincts were to be trusted—mostly.

  “So you’re shuttling me offstage, keeping me from harm’s way, but aren’t you leaving Avis’s pretty flank exposed?”

  Hadrian was silent and Fen’s eyes narrowed.

  “For God’s sake, you aren’t setting a trap with Avis as bait?”

  “She believes you innocent as well, but has it in her head that unless we solve this business of the notes, she must break our engagement. She sees that she’s sending you beyond the reach of suspicion and does not accept that she’s put herself closer to harm’s way by doing so. I could not argue her from that position.”

  Fen tossed back whiskey that was likely older than he was. “God in heaven.”

  “Or Lucifer in hell,” Hadrian rejoined. “Avie and I will make calls, attend services, and entertain our neighbors here at Landover, as if we’re truly anticipating matrimony—which I surely am. If the culprit does not come forward, she will thank me kindly and try to send me on my way.”

  Hadrian had a creeping suspicion Avis would also send him on his way if her detractor were revealed.

  “You’ll allow this?”

  A whiff of honeysuckle teased Hadrian’s senses. “With Avis Portmaine, ‘allow’ doesn’t signify. I would rather send her to Manchester with you than embark on this scheme, but she’ll endure another twelve years of ostracism and vile notes unless something is done to resolve her situation.”

  “Preferably something violent and permanent.” Fen held his glass under his nose, closing his eyes as if in prayer. “You think whoever is behind this will come after you, don’t you?”

  “The most serious threat in those notes is to my life, not hers, and then only in the event of our marriage. The more it looks like we’re marrying, the more at risk I should be.”

  “Why not send me here to Landover?” Fen took a sip of his drink then swirled the remaining contents gently. “I could keep an eye on your saintly self and keep my distance from Avie.”

  Again, Hadrian was silent, and Fen’s eyes went cool.

  “Because you don’t trust me after all,” Fen concluded. “You don’t want me to be guilty, but you aren’t sure I’m innocent. A man can hardly prove he hasn’t done something, unless he can discover who has done it.”

  Fen referred to the Scottish verdict, unique in the British systems of justice—insufficient evidence. Not enough evidence to convict—or to exonerate.

  “Avie’s safety has to come first,” Hadrian said, but it tore at him to all but accuse Fen this way. Fen had likely been judged enough in his life, maybe even enough to create an unreasoning anger at his betters. Avis, however, had been adamant that Fen must be placed beyond suspicion.

  “Because in your position, I might reach the same conclusions,” Fen said, “I won’t call you out, though you should not get me drunk for the nonce, lest my sentiments express themselves in closed fists applied enthusiastically to your vulnerable parts.”

  “For your restraint, I am grateful. Avis was insistent that you go, and she did not enlighten me as to her reasons. When do you leave?”

  “First of the week, which assures it will be raining. Who are your other suspects?”

  Was Fen’s acquiescence too easy, and why did Avis insist on his absence?

  “That’s just it, we either accuse the entire shire, right down to the last gossiping goodwife, or we haven’t any other suspects, particularly not with access to the Belle Maison manor house.”

  One dark eyebrow winged up. “Let me tell you something, Bothwell. Avis Portmaine could take my last groat, steal my first-born son, and slander me in the streets of London, and I’d still owe her.”

  “That is a dramatic sentiment.” Sincere as well.

  “But is it the truth?”

  “Fen, if you can see another way, then stop pawing and posturing and share it with me. The handwriting is yours, the timing coincides with your tenure at Blessings, you’re private about your past, and you have reason to resent a woman to the manor born.”

  That litany sounded damnably convincing, even to Hadrian’s ears, but he went on, because Fen had made no rejoinder.

  “Avis is convinced I can’t turn this matter over to a magistrate without risking that you’ll be charged. You’re respected around here, and you wield a lot of authority. People take a certain glee when a man of stature falls low, and I doubt anyone would pass up the opportunity to drag Avie’s name through yet another scandal. Sending you south is the best we can do for now.”

  “I don’t want to see your dilemma, but the magistrate would likely agree with you. Don’t expect me to thank you, though.”

  Hadrian pushed away from the door to consider the note gracing his desk. Where in the bloody hell was Collins? Why didn’t his mother socialize? Why didn’t Fen volunteer a few details of his past when given the invitation?

  “Sometimes strategic retreat is just that.” Hadrian had retreated to Oxford twelve years ago, retreated to the church, retreated into a marriage devoid of passionate sentiment—while Avis had had nowhere she could safely retreat to.

  “Will you marry Lady Avis?” Fen asked, setting an empty glass down hard on the sideboard.

  “I’ll damned sure try,” Hadrian said, crumpling Benjamin’s note. “It’s more a question of whether Avie will marry me. Now, let me apprise you of a few details regarding this trip of yours.”

  * * *

  “You needn’t look so guilty.” Fen checked the snugness of Handy’s girth with a definite pull. “I know what this little sortie is about, Avie, and I’m willing to go.”

  Avis understood what Fen had left unsaid: Willing to go was not the same as happy to go.

  He stepped back from his horse. “Don’t look at me like that. Let’s stroll in your garden and take our leave privately.”

  The stable yard was swarming with grooms, porters and footmen loading the last of the wagons bound for Manchester, so Avis accepted Fen’s arm. From some window, Lily was likely watching and disapproving, about which Avis could no longer seem to care.

  “You can trust Micah and Sam in the stables,” Fen began, head lowered so he could speak near her ear. “In the house, I’d trust no one, and I do mean no one.”

  Avis kept her eyes front and her expression as bland. “Fen, I am sorry.”

  “And well you should be, sending me away when you need your allies around you, but your situation requires a resolution, else I’d put you over my knee for this folly. You’re wise to appoint Bothwell your champion, but I cannot approve of toying with the man’s affections, Avie.”

  How stern Fenwick sounded, how utterly serious.

  “You encouraged me to dally with him, and now marriage to me could put Hadrian in danger.”

  “I encouraged you to dally, yes.” Fen bent to snap off a white rose, but the blossom fell apart before he could bring it to his nose. “Dallying is good for morale, and you weren’t inclined to take advantage of my generous nature, but he’s not dallying, Avie. The poor sod loves you and probably has since boyhood.”

  “Poor sod?”

  “Any man who’s facing rejection from the woman he loves is a poor sod, so don’t argue with me. Before I go, I will have your assurances that you’ll take every precaution, listen to Bothwell, and trust no one save him, Micah and Sam.”

  “Not even Lily?” For Lily would tell Avis not to trust Fenwick.

  “You already keep a certain distance from dear Lily, though I’m not sure why. She’s honestly devoted to you.”

  Lily was devoted to finding fault, scolding, and keeping the internal scales tipped to the side of fear, probably as a result of a vicarage upbringing. Why had it taken Avis so long to see that?

  “Devotion can be a
burden. I’ll miss you, Fen.”

  “Not as much as you think you will. Bothwell will see to that.”

  Was this jealousy? Teasing? Whatever it was, Avis didn’t like it. “Hadrian is an old friend, and you are another old friend.”

  “Dear heart,”—Fen’s smile turned piratical—“come here.”

  They were shielded by trees and foliage, so Avis stepped into his arms and let him embrace her. He knew how to hold a woman, knew how to comfort with bodily closeness and gentle strength, and that’s exactly how he lured her in.

  Without Avis quite knowing how, though, he was kissing her. A buss to each cheek, then her forehead, then softly settling his lips on hers.

  He was skilled. Stealthy, easy with his overtures, and careful not to hold her too tightly. When his tongue touched her lips, though, Avis put an end to his nonsense.

  “What in blazes do you think you’re doing, Ashton Fenwick?” She stepped back and would have left his embrace, but he held her easily.

  “Want to slap me?”

  “Yes, in fact.” Though she wouldn’t slap him hard. This was Fen, and he was a friend, and she could make allowance for one kiss that apparently had some didactic purpose.

  “You don’t want to slap old Bothwell when he kisses you, do you?”

  “Fen, that is private.” Also true.

  His embrace shifted, became less intimate without him moving. “Avie, you love him.” His voice was quiet, his tone patient or…despairing.

  “Hush.” She should stomp away in high dudgeon. Instead, she hid her face against Fen’s broad shoulder, breathing in horse and new hay.

  “You want to slap me when my kiss is a little too friendly, but you want to shed your clothes and devour Bothwell when he kisses you. Am I right?”

  “What I want doesn’t matter.” When had it ever?

  “What you want, my dear, is all that matters,” Fen said. “And you want him.” He gathered her closer, as if he could will the words to settle in her brain, and then he kissed her cheek again. “Wish me safe journey, and don’t get married without me on hand to instruct the groom and kiss the bride.”