Alicia

by Laura Matthews

  “But I did not order it.”

  “Of course you did not. Nigel did. It is a present to you,” she explained patiently.

  “It somehow makes me very proud,” Alicia confessed, “not just for me, but for everyone who helped to put the shop back together. I shall of course tell Lord Stronbert myself, but I hope you will just mention that I am...grateful and pleased.”

  “Of course, my dear. I am sure he will not be long in London.”

  “He has gone to London? I think he did not mention that he was planning a trip,” Alicia said, curiously hurt.

  “I gather he received a letter yesterday which necessitated the journey. No doubt he assumed I would tell you.” Miss Carnworth’s eyes held Alicia’s for a moment before the latter’s dropped.

  “Yes, well, there is no reason he should tell me.”

  “We assume he will be back in time for Christmas,” her companion said comfortably.

  “I imagine the dowager marchioness would be rather put out with him if he were not,” Alicia replied with a grin.

  Alicia climbed out of the carriage and thanked Miss Carnworth for her help. Felicia greeted her cheerfully when she entered the cottage and chatted about her day with the Maple sisters. Her mother spoke of the purchases she had made, the items ordered which would arrive in a few days in time for the heaviest shopping of the year.

  But Alicia could not shake the despondency she felt. There was no reason he should tell her that he was leaving for London. No reason that she should suddenly feel very lonely. She no longer feared Tackar; Stronbert had assured her that though Sir John had released him, the marquis had brought the matter to higher authorities and if Tackar set foot in England again, he would be arrested.

  When Stronbert had returned to the Court after seeing Sir John, he had sent a man to keep watch near Tackar’s estate. In due time the man had informed him that Tackar had returned and left again within the day, a carriage overflowing with luggage taking him to the coast where he had sailed for France. Although the channel was rough at that time of year, word was eventually received that there had (unfortunately) been no mishap to Tackar, who had duly arrived in Paris.

  With the holidays approaching, the activity at the shop increased and it required all her time and attention to organize the new merchandise and wait on customers. Felicia overruled her objections and came to assist in the shop regularly for the period. And still the days went by and Lord Stronbert did not return. Alicia and her daughter received an invitation from the dowager to spend Christmas at the Court, and they accepted. But there was no word of or from Stronbert, and Alicia could not shake the heaviness of her heart. She did not wish to examine her feelings. There was no sense in it. But she peeked each night at the enameled snuff box she had seen in York and ordered among others to be delivered to the shop. When it came, she took it to her room, reminding herself that if he could give her a sign for her shop, she could give him a simple snuff box by way of thanks for all his help. She kept it carefully wrapped in her drawer.

  Felicia was concerned when she occasionally discovered her mother, thinking herself unnoticed, with a sad countenance and unhappy eyes. The girl herself was reasonably content, her friendship with the Maple sisters leading to others in the neighborhood. She missed Dorothy and Rowland, but she relied on Rowland’s word that he would be back, and it could not be so very long now. If he did not return, well, then she would probably look like her mother did now. Dear God, she thought suddenly, Mama is missing Lord Stronbert. She became more attentive to her mother’s moods and actions but there was no sign, no word. Perhaps she was wrong after all.

  * * * *

  Stronbert left the Court at the end of his patience with Tackar, and Stronbert was a very patient man. The letter he had received was from a friend in London informing him that various people, himself included, had received letters from Tackar in France containing damaging references to Stronbert and a Lady Coombs, the widow of Sir Frederick Coombs. The insinuation was that Tackar had made Lady Coombs his mistress years ago when Sir Frederick abandoned her. He had further suggested that this was why Sir Frederick had willed his property as he had. Not satisfied with that, Tackar had indicated that he had tired of the lady and dropped her, whereupon she had moved to a town near Stronbert Court and lured the marquis into her net.

  Tackar did not hesitate at this juncture to point out that there was also a nubile young daughter involved in the current arrangement. For good measure he suggested that the marquis had viciously laid the blame on him for a fire set in the widow’s shop in order to rid himself of Tackar, since Lady Coombs still pined for her former lover.

  Lady Coombs was situated too far from London, geographically and mentally, to come in contact with these rumors, Stronbert knew, but he refused to allow them to circulate. In fact he refused to allow Tackar to live any longer if he had any say in the matter. He made the journey to London in record time to assess the damage done and by his very presence, allay the rumors as best he could.

  Then he set out for France, his friend George Savile, who had written him, accompanying him. The channel crossing was reasonably good, and within four days they were in the capital. Stronbert insisted he must see Tackar immediately, but his friend grumbled, “It has been a wearying journey, Nigel, and it is late. Let us call on him first thing in the morning.”

  “You need not accompany me, George, though I will ask that you act my second in the affair. You are right; it is late. But I will be gone before you arise in the morning.”

  George yawned and muttered, “As you will, Nigel. Now leave me to get some sleep."

  Stronbert woke early and breakfasted before hiring a hack to take him to the address Tackar had given his correspondents. The concierge responded immediately, his eyes expressing his excitement. “But no, monsieur, you have just missed M. Tackar. He has left for the Bois de Boulogne already.” The man gave a knowing wink.

  Stronbert regarded him curiously. “He has gone to fight a duel?”

  “He was never up so early before,” the man said slyly, “nor does he usually leave with a pistol case.”

  “Thank you,” Stronbert said, passing him a coin. He remounted his hack and set off with all possible speed for the Bois de Boulogne. Trust Tackar to embroil himself within weeks of his arrival. Damn it, he did not want someone else killing the villain. He urged his mount faster.

  A light snow started to fall as he approached the wood and the neigh of a horse directed him to the scene of the activity. As he leapt from his horse his eyes fell on the tableau before him. Two men stood with their pistols aimed, awaiting the drop of the handkerchief. One was Tackar, the other was his nephew Rowland.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Rowland and Dorothy had left Tetterton in rather downcast spirits, in spite of the fact that they were eager to see their mother recovered from her recent illness. The horrifying condition of Lady Coombs’s shop had impressed a mental image on each of their minds which did not seem to diminish as the distance from the scene increased.

  “We should have stayed to help,” Dorothy protested for the third time as they reached the inn where they were to spend the night.

  “Uncle Nigel will do all that is necessary, you may be sure. They would not have let us delay our departure,” Rowland pointed out once again. But he grieved for the mother and daughter laboring under this new catastrophe. Perhaps Felicia would not even be there when he returned to the Court. The thought was unbearable, and he thrust it from his mind, determined to take an optimistic view of the situation. Lady Gorham would lend her assistance; she was Lady Coombs’s particular friend. And after the new year, when he would be free to return to the Court, he would do all he could to lend his support to the two ladies.

  Although he was depressed to think how little he could do, this decision had to satisfy him for the time being. Dorothy was aware of his restlessness on the journey, but he refused to allow her to draw him into any further useless recapitulation of the fire at the s
hop. Their arrival at their home near Bath allowed Rowland for a short while to dismiss his worries in the relief of seeing his mother fully recovered. But soon his restlessness grew, and his mother urged him to accept his friend Charles March’s invitation to spend some time in London before Christmas.

  “You really would not mind if I left again so soon?” he asked with a frown.

  “No, my love, so long as you are back for the holidays. Dorothy is so pleased to be with me again that she will not leave my sight,” Lady Mary admitted with a chuckle. “Go to London and enjoy yourself. We will plan some amusements for the holidays so that you won’t be bored then.”

  “Lord, Mother, I’m not bored,” he protested. “I just feel...at loose ends right now.”

  Lady Mary was well aware of his disquiet and probed gently for its source. “No doubt at the Court there was always something to do. Did Nigel keep you forever occupied?”

  “We saw a great deal of him, of course, and he let me drive his new phaeton several times, but you know what he is. He expected us to provide our own amusement for the most part and is not forever arranging insipid activities for his guests. He lets you know what there is to be done in the neighborhood and then lets you have at it.”

  “Dorothy spoke of a party he gave your last night there.”

  “Yes, that was famous,” Rowland agreed enthusiastically, the thought of Felicia’s lithe figure going through the steps of the dance clear in his mind.

  “I understand one of the shops in town was burned that night. Dorothy seemed upset about it.” Lady Mary regarded him questioningly.

  Rowland could be as bland as his uncle when he did not wish to reveal his emotions on a subject. “She must have told you that we had ridden often with Lady Coombs’s daughter. It was distressing to leave them with such a disaster on their hands when we wished to help them.” He turned to contemplate his father’s portrait over the mantel. “You do not think Father would mind my going to London?”

  “No, dear. He has much to catch up, after so many months of sitting in my pocket.”

  Her son laughed. “I hardly think he would put it that way, Mother.”

  With this encouragement, Rowland had set off for town the next day. His friend March had lodgings in Chapel Street and was in a position to show Rowland about London, introducing him in the clubs and acquainting him with several gaming houses. Fortunately there was nothing of the gambler in Rowland’s makeup, but he enjoyed their outings and the people he met. He had not forgotten the name his uncle had given him, however, and after a few days in town he sent a message to Mrs. Frazier requesting her permission to call on her.

  When her affirmative response came, he found that he was strangely loath to present himself. Those few previous adventures he had boasted of were true enough, but he felt inexperienced in the face of a real courtesan. And it did no good to tell himself that he was doing this for Felicia. Though he hoped that it was true, the absurdity of voicing such a thought, even in his own mind, appalled him. He bathed and dressed with infinite care, explaining nonchalantly to March, “I have an engagement tonight, old boy.”

  “Do you now? With whom?” March asked curiously. “Friend of my uncle’s,” Rowland improvised. “No one you would know.”

  March regarded Rowland’s attire sardonically but said only, “I dare say.”

  Rowland had decided to walk, as Mrs. Frazier’s address was not far distant, but he was plagued with doubts on the way. Was it understood in her allowing him to present himself that they would...? How was he to know how much to pay her? He could hardly expect her to post a bill of charges. The thought of asking such a question was daunting indeed. He very nearly turned back several times before reaching her home. Drawing a deep breath, he tapped on the door with his cane.

  The servant who answered his knock ushered him into the hall of the small house and accepted his card. Rowland could hear the sound of laughing voices in a room down the hall, and as the servant proceeded in that direction he had a good mind to let himself out and escape from the place. How was he to walk into a room filled with people? Had Mrs. Frazier simply allowed him to attend some sort of soiree? After all, he had only asked if he might call. Well, how was one to ask if one might come and bed a woman? Surely no one was that crass!

  A feeling of panic welled up in him as the servant returned. His chance to escape was fast disappearing.

  “Mrs. Frazier asked that you await her in the yellow parlor, Mr. Clinton. She will be with you shortly.” The man opened a door off the opposite side of the hall from where the gathering appeared to be in progress. With as much savoir-faire as he could manage, Rowland handed over his hat, gloves, and cane and entered the small, sparsely furnished room. When the door closed behind him, he emitted a sigh and surveyed his surroundings. The draperies were of yellow damask, with the seat covers to match, and the furniture was in excellent taste, though there were not many pieces. There were two paintings on the walls, one of a race horse and one of a woman.

  Rowland studied the latter, a woman of perhaps thirty years with raven-black hair and serious blue eyes. The face was heart-shaped with a determined chin and a provocative smile. High cheekbones and a straight nose gave the sitter an almost classical look, but the impression was distorted by the sensuous lips.

  Unaware that someone had entered the room, Rowland was startled when he heard a voice ask, “Mr. Clinton?”

  He swung around to face the original of the portrait, though he judged her to be slightly older than she had been when she sat for the painting. “Ah...yes. Mrs. Frazier?”

  The woman nodded and indicated that he should take a seat, regarding him gravely all the while. “I understand you are Lord Stronbert’s nephew.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I...I did not realize you were entertaining. Perhaps I should not stay.”

  She smiled encouragingly, but her eyes continued to disconcert him. It was not that they did not share the smile with her lips, but that they managed to remain searching all the while. “I am not myself entertaining, Mr. Clinton. Mrs. Forrest, who shares the house with me, has some guests at present. There is no reason why you should not join the party if you wish.”

  “No, that is, I had hoped to...be alone with you.”

  “You might enjoy a glass of punch with the others,” she suggested gently.

  “Yes, but I think I would rather not. I have never been to such a gathering and I would not know how to conduct myself.”

  Her lips twitched slightly but she said reassuringly, “You would find it little different than any other social function, Mr. Clinton. A bit more relaxed and outspoken, perhaps, but not essentially unlike the evenings to which you are accustomed. I would like you to come as my guest.”

  “Very well,” Rowland murmured.

  Mrs. Frazier rose and Rowland leaped to his feet to open the door for her. It was but a step across the hall, and he was surprised to find that rather than the dozen people he had presumed to be there, they numbered only six, five of them men. Mrs. Frazier introduced him to each of them and handed him a glass of punch. He was not sure what he had expected, but certainly not what he found. Both Mrs. Frazier and Mrs. Forrest were dressed alluringly, to be sure, but there was no suggestion of the unseemly. The men were lounging about the room in easy conversation with each other and the two women. Rowland was asked by his nearest neighbor if he was interested in horseracing.

  Oblivious to the passing time, he was drawn into various conversations with each person in the room. There was a freeness in the language to which he was not accustomed in the presence of women, but after a few glasses of the potent punch he drifted into a more relaxed frame of mind and speech himself. Mrs. Frazier glanced at him approvingly from time to time and eventually freed herself from the gentleman with whom she was speaking to come over to him.

  “May I show you a piece of Sèvres I have just acquired, Mr. Clinton?”

  “Why, certainly. I would be honored,” Rowland agreed and followed her from the
room.

  She led him up a short flight of stairs, all the while discussing the merits of the fragile bowl. The door she opened led into a sitting room, with a dressing room and bed chamber beyond, all done in delicate shades of blue. “It is an extravagance of mine, the purchase of a few pieces which I cannot resist.” Carefully she lifted the bowl from a rosewood pier table and offered it to him for inspection.

  Rowland made the appropriate comments, but wondered whether he would be expected to return to the party below. Surprisingly, he had enjoyed himself enormously in the casual atmosphere, but the loose talk had stimulated him and the drink had freed him from the nervousness he had suffered when he entered the house. As he passed the bowl back to Mrs. Frazier, their eyes held and their hands touched.

  “Will you not sit down, Mr. Clinton? We have had no opportunity for private conversation.” Turning her back, she gently returned the Sèvres bowl to its place.

  There were several chairs and a twin-back settee; Rowland chose the latter. After a tug on the bell cord, Mrs. Frazier joined him on the seat, commenting, “I have rung for some brandy. Tell me about yourself, Mr. Clinton. Where do you live?”

  “Near Bath with my parents and my sister. I haven’t spent much time there recently, as I was at Oxford and then at my uncle’s recently when my mother was ill. It’s a handsome place, hundreds of acres and a stable full of prime blood.”

  A youthful maid entered and set down a tray with a decanter and two glasses. With a hasty curtsy she vanished again, and Mrs. Frazier leisurely poured out two glasses and handed him one. “Is your mother well now?”

  “Yes, I have just come from there and she’s blooming again.” Rowland sipped at the brandy, unable to decide whether he was expected to make some move. The woman’s lips were slightly parted, invitingly, and one hand lay close to his leg. Her eyes were as steady and grave as they were shown in the portrait, but a warm light glowed in them. Rowland picked up her hand and raised it to his lips, first kissing the back and then turning it over to kiss the palm lingeringly.