Hadrian

by Grace Burrowes

“I didn’t have to.” Hadrian fussed about with the tea tray, and the fragrance of chamomile and flowers wafted to Avis’s nose. She knew this particular tisane, and even the scent of it brought relaxation.

  Hadrian poured a cup, added a little sugar, then took a sip.

  “It’s not too bad,” he pronounced. “I didn’t discuss your indisposition. All I did was make your excuses, and she divined the nature of your discomfort. She thinks you should marry me, by the way.”

  Which opinion she’d offered with no prompting by her caller whatsoever, of course.

  Hadrian passed Avis the cup, and like a jealous nanny, watched her drink. She didn’t finish it all at once, but rather, settled the warm cup against her stomach.

  “I really shouldn’t marry you.” She wanted to, but she spared them both that admission. “I’ve had another note.”

  He studied her for a long moment, hands on his hips, lips pursed in thought. When he sat down right beside her and put an arm around her shoulders, Avis fished a folded paper from her skirt pocket.

  Had she expected him to stomp off, to tire of her problems, to blame her for the notes as she’d blamed herself? His arm around her shoulders, the tisane cooling in its cup, she accepted that he truly did love her.

  God help him.

  “The handwriting is the same as the others, and the paper a quarter sheet of foolscap,” Avis said. “I don’t care for the tone.”

  She cared very much for Hadrian’s opinion of the situation, though.

  “‘A good woman can be the making of a man,’” Hadrian read. “‘A bad woman can cost him everything.’” He folded the note up and slipped it into his waistcoat pocket. “This tells us a few things.”

  “Our plan is working,” Avis said, taking another sip of her tisane. “We’re mightily displeasing somebody.” Who was hell-bent now on threatening Hadrian—a former vicar, for pity’s sake, and the sole heir to Landover.

  “But if the somebody who’s displeased is supposed to be Ashton Fenwick, now he has to have accomplices,” Hadrian said. “Your whole household knows he’s reportedly larking away to the south, and they’d remark him stealing about, leaving notes in your sewing basket.”

  “The note was under my pillow, Hadrian.”

  Like a spider lurking among the linen. Avis had considered moving to a guest room, leaving the chamber she’d had since girlhood, her last sanctuary in her family’s home.

  “That location, under your very pillow, suggests a female accomplice. Your boudoir is hardly frequented by the footmen this time of year.” He took her tea cup from her and wrapped her under his arm. “When did you find it?”

  “This morning,” Avis replied, leaning into him. “When I woke up, it wasn’t there, but I went back to my room to get my flute after taking my walk and noticed my pillows weren’t as I’d left them. The note was stashed among them.”

  “Were there footmen about?”

  He was doing it again, being calm and methodical when Avis wanted to screech out indignation and exasperation. Did Gran have a tisane to restore a woman’s sense of safety?

  What had Hadrian asked?

  “The footmen had not been in my room in some days. The weather hasn’t been cool enough for fires at night, and I water my own flowers. The candles were fresh last night, and the lamps in my bedroom aren’t trimmed or restocked by the footmen.”

  “So unless a footman were very crafty indeed, we’re looking at a maid. Do any of them bear you particular animosity?”

  His thumb stroked along the side of her neck, a soothing caress that anchored her to the discussion and to him.

  “Of course some of the maids bear me ill will. Every one of them I’ve scolded for making sheep’s eyes at the footmen, every one who has lingered too long among Vim’s or Ben’s things, every one who doesn’t tend to her tasks unless the housekeeper is standing directly over her.”

  Good heavens, she sounded near tears—and she was.

  “You do not have an easy time here, do you?”

  “If you mean does my staff dote on me, no, they don’t. They do what they’re told, and when Ben or Vim are in residence, the staff dotes on them.” As did Avis, so desperate was she for her brothers’ company.

  Hadrian was silent beside her, but his free hand was again making those slow circles low on her abdomen.

  “I want you and Lily to remove to Landover.”

  “That will not serve, Hadrian,” Avis said, letting her eyes drift closed. “Lily would not view herself as an adequate chaperone. Besides, if Fen can bribe somebody here at Blessings, he no doubt has spies at Landover.”

  “It isn’t Fen. You know it isn’t.”

  His confidence in Fen was reassuring. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “I’m to pay a call on Lady Collins,” Hadrian said. “I’d rather not delay it until you’re feeling better.”

  “I’ll feel better the day after tomorrow,” Avis said, sitting up a bit.

  “You go through three days of this every month?” How indignant he sounded, and over a simple fact of female biology.

  “The discomfort is three days, the mess is longer.”

  “God in heaven. Rue was in bed for a day, sometimes not even that.”

  “It passes.” And the important topic was not Avis’s indisposition. “I’m struck by the fact that, again, the note threatens you, not me exactly.”

  “It does, but you are not to fret. The staff at Landover knows which side their bread is buttered on, and I will be careful.”

  “You’ll tell me what transpires with the baroness?”

  “I’ll return tomorrow. You need your rest, and I’m loath to convey anything significant to you in writing.”

  “Prudent.” When she would have risen, Hadrian leaned down and pressed a kiss to her mouth, a little show of possession, perhaps, but also comfort before he took his leave.

  Avis was growing to depend on him, on his pragmatic willingness to solve her problems, be they female discomfort, threatening notes, or intimate demons in need of exorcism. A woman could become to rely on to such treatment. A foolish woman who had no care for the man trying to protect her.

  Lily rejoined Avis not five minutes later, and she was once again wearing Avis’s green cashmere shawl.

  “I’ve brewed one of Gran Carruthers’s tisanes,” Avis said, though in truth, Hadrian had ordered the kitchen to make it up. “Have a cup—it’s very pleasant.”

  Lily appropriated the rocking chair to Avis’s right and helped herself to a tea cake. “Half a cup will do, thank you. Mr. Bothwell didn’t stay very long. I hope his regard for you isn’t waning.”

  The usual concern laced Lily’s tone, all bound up in sincerity and protectiveness.

  “Your tea.” Avis passed over a half cup.

  “A bit more than that, please. These cakes are quite good. Is Mr. Bothwell pressing you for a date?”

  Avis added a dollop more tea to the cup and passed it over again. “The cakes were made this morning. I’m glad you enjoy them.” She rose and closed the door, because now, before she lost her nerve, she must speak more plainly than she had in all the years since Lily had joined the household.

  “You forgot my sugar,” Lily said, wrinkling her nose and setting the cup back on its saucer. “Or shall I try the honey?”

  “Help yourself to whichever you prefer,” Avis said, because Lily was playing some game, even in something so trivial as having Avis pour her tea.

  And all the while, Lily oozed compassion, humility, and quiet sermons.

  Avis resumed her seat as Lily stirred sugar into the half-empty cup.

  “Lily, my affection for Mr. Bothwell and his for me have not wavered. If anything, my regard for him grows over time. If and when he and I marry, the services of a companion will not be required when I remove to his household. Your severance will be generous, and the character I write for you will be glowing.”

  This was right. This was a calm, reasonable decision made out of neither fea
r nor anger, and yet, it was a vital step toward putting the past in a proper perspective.

  Lily said nothing for a long while. She sat with her tea cup poised before her, back straight, expression unreadable.

  Whatever response Lily came up with—a scold, a sniffled acceptance, a small tantrum—it would not outweigh Avis’s relief at having made the decision.

  “Have you set a date then?” Lily’s tone held the brittle cheer of somebody enduring a public betrayal, and yet, she’d managed to fire off a telling shot.

  “A special license is a possibility,” Avis said, rising. “Please take as long as you need to find another post, but as of this moment, you are free of any further obligations as my companion.”

  Avis headed for the door. Lily said nothing, but remained seated, a pillar of silence swathed in a green shawl Avis had once treasured, but now, never wanted to see again.

  * * *

  Two aspects of the Baroness Collins impressed Hadrian as he bowed over her hand. The first was her graciousness, apparent in her manners, her speech, her graceful movements. She was every inch the dignified lady, while he was surprised she’d even be at home to him.

  The second feature he noticed was the sadness in her eyes. Parents watching a child slip away to a lingering illness bore this air of patient sorrow.He’d known sadness like that, when Rue had died, but it didn’t still haunt him as Lady Collins appeared haunted, even as she smiled at him over a blue jasperware tea service that went nicely with her fair coloring.

  “I’d heard you’re doing the pretty in Harold’s absence. Well done of you, Mr. Bothwell. Too few of us observe the civilities any more.”

  “I’m home to stay, and always glad to welcome a neighbor who comes calling.”

  She set her tea cup down carefully. “Harold extended the same olive branch. He and I left each other in peace.”

  Her voice held a guarded plea Hadrian couldn’t afford to heed.

  “I don’t wish to disturb you,” he began, but she stopped him with a shake of her head.

  “I have my sources too, Mr. Bothwell. Hartley is back in the country, which bodes ill for him, because Benjamin Portmaine will put period to my son’s existence does he learn of it.”

  “I don’t think so.” Hadrian could give her this much and hope she was willing to aid him in exchange. “Lady Avis and Lady Alex have enjoined their brothers from further vengeance. If Benjamin and Wilhelm have abided by their sisters’ wishes all these years, only substantial provocation will deter them from that course now.”

  “Substantial provocation.” She grimaced delicately, a woman who’d once been pretty, but whom care had rendered faded and fatigued. “That is my son, substantial provocation personified. You needn’t spare me, Mr. Bothwell. Better than anyone, I know what Hartley is capable of.”

  Her sadness might be mostly for the execrable excuse for a man who was her son, but she was sensible enough to be sad for herself as well.

  “I’m sorry.” The words were out, from the long habit of a man who’d made his living dealing in sympathy and social conventions.

  “I do not believe a single person has expressed to me that particular condolence.” She picked up her tea cup and paused before taking a sip. “Lady Avis will thrive in your care.”

  Thus were Hadrian’s condolences neatly tucked aside.

  “If Lady Avis marries me. This is not a foregone conclusion.”

  The baroness rose, and Hadrian was struck again by the woman’s inherent grace. How had the late baron merited the hand of such a lady, and how had she endured her marriage, if what Gran had said was true?

  “What can I do to help, sir?” She faced him, arms crossed. “I called on Lady Avis after Hart used her so ill, offered her what consequence I had, but my visit seemed only to upset her and then she was off to her aunt’s in the north. Harold’s advice was to let sleeping dogs lie. Lady Avis seemed to be doing better, but then Lady Alex left up her majority, and matters have been difficult ever since.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Lady Collins let her arms drop to her sides, the gesture calling attention to a complete lack of ornamentation about her attire. Not a watch pinned to her bodice, not a bracelet, not a ring.

  Could any woman draw close to Hart Collins without suffering his rapaciousness?

  “Lady Avis had put the incident behind her, or appeared to,” the baroness said. “When she came home from the north, she attended services, guided her brother’s domestic staff, and rode about the neighborhood, the same as any young lady of the manor might.”

  The incident . Hadrian wanted to up-end the tea service all over the faded Axminster carpet. “That changed?”

  “After Lady Alexandra decamped, Lady Avis disappeared. I honestly see more of Lily Prentiss than I do Avis Portmaine.”

  “Lily calls on you?”

  Lady Collins ran her hand over a cherry wood sideboard that sported not a single decanter, though a long scratch marred its surface.

  “Miss Prentiss calls on my abigail. They have the same half-day, and the help can be more bound by convention than the titles, you know? Lily works for an earl’s daughter, Tansy is employed by a baroness who is also an earl’s daughter, albeit one aging in obscurity, so they must associate with each other rather than with the chambermaids.”

  “Working for the church, one grasped the hierarchies.” Particularly a rural northern church, far from the plethora of titles sporting around in the south.

  “I was surprised you chose the church.” She resumed her place on the settee and poured another round of infernal damned tea. “Harold was relieved, though, and said as much.”

  “I am his heir. The military would not have been a prudent choice.”

  She peered into her tea cup, which sported a chip near the handle. “I thought you’d marry Lady Avis, all those years ago.”

  Some of Hadrian’s ire dissipated, though he left his tea cooling on the tray.

  “So did I.” They shared a smile, two people at whom life had thrown unplanned challenges.

  “Why are you really here, Mr. Bothwell? I appreciate the niceties, but if you’ve a point to your visit, you’d best get to it, for I won’t be calling upon you.”

  To business, then.

  “I am investigating what happened all those years ago between your son and Lady Avis. I’ve reason to think somebody is perpetuating awareness of that sad day, and doing so in a manner that casts Lady Avis in as poor a light as possible.”

  “My nephew once suggested the same thing.”

  “Your nephew?”

  She apparently found that chipped blue tea cup fascinating. “He doesn’t bruit it about. Ashton Fenwick is my late brother’s child. He turned up here years ago, and while he avoids me now, he does keep an eye on his cousin, Sara Bennett, who is my younger sister’s child.”

  Hadrian’s meager serving of tea abruptly sat uneasily in his belly. “Fenwick never said a word about his connection to you.” In twelve years, Fenwick had never said a word, not to Harold, and Hadrian would bet, not to Avis.

  “Would you, in his place?” She glanced to the window, where some small bird thumped and fluttered against the glass, as if sunshine and nectar had rendered it drunk and blind.

  While Hadrian silently reeled.

  Fenwick was Collins’s cousin? A blood relation to the man who’d all but raped Avie? “What reason would Fenwick have for remaining silent about his relationship to you?”

  “His antecedents are unfortunate,” she said. “I acknowledge Ashton openly, but what can association do for either of us? Ashton could easily have been tarred with Hartley’s brush, and my late husband never did a thing for my nephew beyond basic hospitality. Then too, Hart delighted in tormenting Ashton when they were younger.”

  “They associated?”

  And God above, what would this knowledge do to Avis’s fragile sense of safety?

  The lady set her tea down untasted.

  “They associated occasion
ally, as boys. Common he might be, but Ashton is more a gentleman than my son will ever be. Ashton traveled immediately after university, but then showed up in the area again some years ago.”

  “This leads me to my next question.” Hadrian rose, though it was rude. The frantic bird would soon come to harm if nobody dissuaded it from attempting to fly through a pane it could not comprehend.

  “Ask.”

  Hadrian opened the window—that was all it took—and the bird came to light on a bush several feet away. “Who was with Collins the day he assaulted Avis?”

  “You’ll file charges at this late hour?”

  Charges were not out of the question, for premeditation in this case had involved accessories before the fact, a conspiracy even.

  “I’d rather not, for her ladyship’s sake,” Hadrian answered honestly. “I want to deduce where the ill will and gossip regarding my intended are coming from, and put a stop to it.”

  “Fair enough, but other than a William Asterman, the son of an old friend, I’m not sure who was with Hart that day. Not all of his guests were party to that particular outing. He was forever bringing crowds of young fellows home with him when he was between terms or sent down. I put them in a guest wing, kept the maids out of sight, and made sure the firearms were locked up. Even his father grew impatient with his impromptu house parties. They were expensive in many regards.”

  “Where can I find this Asterman?”

  “He was killed on the Peninsula. I will ask Tansy who else was about. She has the recall of an elephant and was in my employ at the time.”

  “I would appreciate it.”

  Hadrian offered the required parting platitudes, though h was frustrated with what he’d learned, and what he hadn’t. He paused when Lady Collins had escorted him to the front door.

  “If the baron intends to come north, will you tell me, my lady?”

  “I hope Hart has learned a little discretion in twelve years. But yes, if he deigns to inform me he’s coming this way, I will make sure you know. Lady Avis is owed that much, at least.”

  He wanted to leave, but common decency required that he ask one more question. “You’ll be all right?”