Crystal Heart

by Kruger, Mary

  Forget about her, he commanded himself, and began to pay stricter attention to the journal. By chance, he had chosen the very volume he needed, the diary kept by Camilla Hart before she was married. If he had to write some sort of insipid play, he might as well get it over with. Frowning over the spidery, faded handwriting, he began to read, and soon was engrossed in the details of life as it was lived over a century earlier. Whatever else Camilla’s faults may have been, she had been a keen observer, and her comments on life were sharp and amusing. Trying to imagine Lady Pamela saying such things, he grinned. He’d have to tone Camilla down for her, and keep his enjoyment of the journal to himself. He thought he would have enjoyed Camilla’s company.

  The morning sped past. By noon, John’s shoulders ached from being hunched over, and his eyes burned. He stretched, glanced about the room, and then back at the journal. One more entry, he thought. Then he’d get up to fetch his luncheon. Unfortunately, the entry detailed spring cleaning, and was of no interest to him. He was about to push the journal away, to return to it when he was fresher, when a sentence caught his eye. “Found today a curious thing in the blue bedroom. When Libby and I moved the wardrobe to clean behind it, we found a heart pendant.”

  John sat up straighter, and read on. The heart, Camilla had written, had a note attached to it by a ribbon, a note which read simply, “To Madeleine.” Deducing that it must once have belonged to Lady Madeleine Follett, whose husband had met such an unfortunate death, Camilla had wrapped it carefully and had sent it to the Folletts. She could, she added with her typical honesty, do no less, even if she had been tempted to keep it.

  A heart pendant. The crystal heart. Camilla hadn’t written that it was made of crystal, but what else could it have been? A chill ran down John’s spine. Until now, he hadn’t really believed Alana’s story. Finding confirmation of it, and in such an unlikely place, was eerie. But, a ghost? No, that he would not believe.

  There was a knock on the door, making him lift his head. “Come in,” he called, and received another shock. Alana walked in, as if she knew he had been thinking about her. Again that chill raced down his spine. “Miss Sterling.”

  “Mr. Winston,” she replied. “I was hoping to catch you before luncheon. I’ve so much to do this afternoon, I wouldn’t have time today, and I do need to speak with you.”

  “And I with you.”

  “Oh?” Alana took the same leather armchair Lady Pamela had earlier sat in, not bothering to worry about dust. “Something important?”

  “Maybe. I found—but what did you wish to see me about?”

  She grimaced. “This bloody masquerade. Forgive my language, sir, but that is how I’ve come to think of it.”

  John was grinning. “There’s to be a play, you know.”

  “Oh, don’t I! Lady Pamela was going on and on about it this morning, until Lady Honoria told her to be quiet.” Her eyes sparkled. “She calls her Pammy. It works like a charm.”

  “Are you finding working for Lady Honoria difficult?”

  “Oh, no. She and I understand each other. However, the rest of the family....”

  John grinned again. “I know what you mean. Is it always like this, working for someone?”

  “Is this your first position, sir?”

  “Yes.” Damn, he hadn’t meant to let that out. She thought little enough of him as it was. Though why that should matter to him, he didn’t know. “What did you want to see me about?”

  “The masquerade. I do wonder how they managed without us. You’re writing a play, and I not only have to write out invitations, but I’m to find the appropriate costumes, too.”

  “They’re overworking you.”

  She shrugged. “I’d far rather be busy. I’m not complaining, sir, except that it is rather silly, isn’t it?”

  “I’ve seen worse.”

  “Yes, in London, but...” Again her voice trailed off, and this time she glanced away.

  “You’ve been to London?”

  “Yes. Now, what I wished to see you about concerns the costumes. Have you an idea what you’ll be writing?”

  So, the very proper Miss Sterling apparently had her secrets, as well. When had she been in London, and why? It hadn’t been as a companion that she had spoken just now. “Yes. Lady Pamela wishes to do the first meeting between Camilla Hart and Roger Valentine.”

  “Oh, perfect. She should find that most romantic.”

  “Yes, except that Camilla doesn’t seem to have had a romantic bone in her body. This is her journal.”

  “Oh?” Alana leaned forward, looking at the volume. “How interesting. Have you found anything of interest?”

  “Yes. A reference to a heart pendant.”

  “What?” Alana grabbed at the journal and pulled it towards her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I planned to. Here, read it. Right there.” He pointed to the passage, and his fingertip brushed against her hand. She looked up, and he pulled away, feeling an odd sensation in his fingers. Static electricity, his science-minded grandfather had once told him, whatever that was. Such sensations weren’t uncommon in wintertime.

  “‘Found today a curious thing in the blue bedroom,’” she read aloud, and then ceased, reading with such concentration that a little line appeared between her eyes. Her elbows rested on the table; her face was propped on her hands and her hair tumbled forward from her cap, making her look young and very pretty. Again John felt that odd sensation, though this time he wasn’t touching her. “Good heavens!” She looked up. “It must have been the crystal heart!”

  “Maybe,” he said, and his eyes met hers, shining like the crystal she spoke of. For the life of him he could not look away, but was held instead by emerald depths flecked with gold, a sun-washed sea. Willingly he would drown in it, in her depths. She was unlike any woman he had ever known, not concerned with parties or gossip or her appearance, but with things that mattered far more. If only she weren’t a paid companion...

  John reared back, horrified at the turn his thoughts had taken. Good God, was he really such a snob? Did it matter what she did to make ends meet? There was no shame in working for a living, as he himself was learning; no shame in earning one’s pay by honest toil. The only people who might think so were just the sort of shallow people in society he despised, the sort he had been not so very long ago. That, and his own father. What would he think if John brought home a woman who had worked for a living, as his bride?

  “It has to be the crystal heart,” Alana said, breaking into his thoughts. “What else could it be?”

  “It doesn’t say it’s crystal.” His bride? Good God. The last thing he wanted to do was marry. If he did, he would choose someone far more docile and pliable than Miss Sterling, no matter her other attractions.

  “No, but I doubt there were two heart pendants meant for Lady Madeleine. We know where it went, now.”

  “Where?”

  “To the Folletts, of course.”

  “And how do you propose we find them?”

  “Hmm.” Alana leaned forward, again propping her chin on her hand. “You haven’t found any mention of them yet?”

  John waved a hand around the room, indicating the multitude of books and papers. “In all this? I’ve hardly had time. And now,” his lips twitched, “I’m supposed to write a play.”

  “Oh, that is nothing.” She rose. “I must go. There’s so much to do.”

  “Wait.” He stood up, his words catching her just as she reached the door. He didn’t want her to go. “You must eat. Why don’t we take luncheon together, and discuss this?”

  “Thank you, but no. I must see if I can find Sir Gabriel and tell him about this.” She smiled. “Thank you for your work. I know he’ll be pleased,” she said, and whisked herself out the door.

  “To hell with Sir Gabriel!” John roared, but she was gone, the door already closed behind her. What sort of woman was she, to prefer to spend time with a ghost, rather than with him? Bah. There was no such thing
as ghosts, and so there was no reason for him to feel this way, angry and frustrated at being deserted. And for what? Some figment of her imagination, some chimera. He was not used to being treated this way, he, the Viscount Kirkwood. Most women buzzed around him like bees to honey. Not her. But then, she didn’t know who he was. How would she react, if she did?

  Unsettling thought. He didn’t know her well enough to predict her behavior, but he very much feared that she would act much as other women did. And why not? She had to work for a living. One could not blame her if she chose a man who could support her in style. Yet, he would be disappointed in her if she did. He couldn’t explain why it mattered, but it did. He wanted her to be different from the others.

  His stomach growled, and for the first time John became aware of how hungry he was. Alana wasn’t the only one with a great deal of work to do this afternoon. Besides that bloody play—he smiled to himself, thinking of Alana’s ladylike voice saying that word—there were all the tasks he’d been hired to do, all the tasks he was coming to enjoy. It wasn’t like him, he thought, heading for the kitchen, but then, much of what he was thinking and doing lately wasn’t like him at all. Or, at least, like the person he had been. That man would have scorned the work he was doing, and scorned Miss Sterling, as well. That man would have known how to attract her.

  He smiled and flirted with Mrs. Doolittle and the kitchen maids, as he always did, and retrieved his luncheon tray from the kitchen. If the Viscount Kirkwood knew how to attract women, how would plain Mr. Winston go about it? Climbing the stairs back to the library, he pondered that thought. So far he hadn’t managed to impress Alana, but what if he tried? Because there was no question that he was attracted to her, unlikely though that was. He would not be here beyond six months, and after that would likely never see her again, but what would be the harm in conducting a brief flirtation? A little romance, to make their time here more pleasant. So long as he made it clear in the beginning that he was in no position to think of anything more, it should be possible. Of course it would. He was passably attractive, after all, and he knew how to be charming. In the past, however, those tools hadn’t been enough. It wasn’t his looks or manner that attracted women. It was who he was.

  The question remained, then. Could he attract someone without using the lure of his name? Grinning, he set to his luncheon with relish. He didn’t know, but he intended to find out. Miss Sterling had best be on her guard.

  Chapter Six

  Sir Gabriel was pacing the floor of her room when Alana came in, making her come to an abrupt stop. “What are you doing here? ‘Tis still daylight,” she said, recovering, and crossed the room with her luncheon tray.

  “That doesn’t matter. You found the heart.”

  Alana looked up in surprise as she sat at her writing table. “Were you there again?”

  “This is still my house.” He took a turn about the floor. “Now. Tell that young popinjay to find my family.”

  “He’s not a popinjay.” Alana toyed with her food. “And he only found a reference to the heart. We still don’t know where it is.”

  “We will. If that young—man—will keep his mind on business, and not seduction.”

  “Seduction!” She laughed. “That was the last thing on his mind.”

  “Ha.”

  “Oh, I might have known you’d think that way! He and I are merely pleasant to each other. After all, we are working on this problem together. Your problem, I might add.” She took a bite of beef, chewing furiously. “I cannot believe that you were there. Do you often spy on me?”

  “It is my fate we are discussing.”

  “And I’ve already told you I will do all I can. I do not need a ghost as a chaperone.”

  “‘Pon my eyes, by the way he was looking at you, you do.”

  Alana looked up again. “How was he looking at me?”

  “By the lord Harry, girl, don’t you realize how close he came to kissing you?”

  “No!” Alana dropped her fork with a clatter. “He has no interest in me. You were imagining things.”

  “Was I? I know well the way a man looks when he’s attracted to a woman.”

  “I imagine it’s a look you practiced a great deal,” she said, tartly, annoyed to feel color seeping into her cheeks. John hadn’t really been about to kiss her, had he?

  “To my shame, yes.”

  “You should be ashamed.” She glared at him, hands on hips, but her annoyance fled at the look on his face. He meant it. “I’m sorry,” she said, softly. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  He waved a hand in dismissal. “‘Tis all in the past, now, and there’s no undoing it.”

  “No.” She regarded him. “How did you meet your wife?”

  “My Madeleine?” He smiled. “‘Twas in France, after that disaster at Worcester.”

  Alana sat up straight. “You were at the Battle of Worcester? With King Charles when he faced Oliver Cromwell, and had to flee?”

  “Indeed, madam.”

  “Then you must have been one of the men who went to France with him.”

  “Yes. ‘Twas there I met Madeleine. We returned here when Charles was restored to the throne.”

  “Of course.” What a remarkable man he must have been. Oh, he’d had his faults, but he’d proved his loyalty, both to the Stuart king’s seemingly hopeless cause, and to a love that endured beyond the grave. There were not many such like him today. “How brave of you.”

  “Do not make me out as more than I was. I enjoyed my time in France.”

  “I’m sure you did,” she said, her voice tart again. “With all the willing French women you must have met.”

  “You know nothing of the matter, madam.”

  Alana’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-”

  “Never mind, madam.” His shoulders were stiff, his expression wooden. “I will leave you in peace,” he said, and faded.

  “Sir Gabriel!” Alana called, half-rising, and then sank back into her chair. He was gone, and he was angry at her. Well, she deserved it, she thought ruefully, for what she had said. Of course, she was still a little angry herself. The idea of his being in the library this morning, watching the encounter between her and John, made her squirm. And when had she begun to think of Mr. Winston by his first name? Most inappropriate. She was employed in this house. She had no right to indulge in flirtations.

  But he was attracted to her. She smiled to herself, absent-mindedly picking at her luncheon. She didn’t need Sir Gabriel to tell her that; she’d seen it for herself. Oh, she remembered well that moment when she had looked up from the journal, and their eyes had caught. Deep hazel eyes, far more attractive than shallow blue, with a sincerity to them she’d never noticed before. Lord help her, but she’d been unable to look away. If John hadn’t taken control of the situation, who knew where it might have led? Because, if he had tried to kiss her, she didn’t think she would have protested.

  It couldn’t come to anything, of course. They were both employed here, and any misconduct would mean losing their positions. For her, that wouldn’t be disastrous; she could always return to her grandfather, though she didn’t want to. For John, though, the consequences would be more severe. He needed this position. Proud he might be, and obviously unused to working, but she had to admit that he had pitched in with a will. She was not going to be the cause of his finding himself out on the street, with no character and thus no prospects of finding another position. She liked him too well for that.

  And when had that happened? she asked herself, rising and taking her tray, to return it to the kitchen. He was exactly the kind of man she disliked. Or, he had been. She paused at the green baize door that led to the kitchen, looking towards the library door. The type of men she had known in London would never have even thought to look for a position, let alone settle in as well as John had. He wasn’t playing at working; he was actually doing it. There was more to him than she had first thought.

  Thoughtful
now, Alana trudged up to the attic, a capacious apron wrapped around her dress and a mobcap covering her hair. If she were to see to the costumes for this ridiculous masquerade, she might as well begin. Now was a good time, while Lady Honoria took the nap she insisted she didn’t need. But, heavens, where to begin? Standing under the gabled roof, Alana surveyed the vast expanse of attic, hands on her hips. In the dusty, uncertain light she could see row after row of boxes and trunks, piled atop each other in haphazard fashion. Apparently no one had thought to clean up here in an age; everything was furred with dust that flew out in clouds at the slightest motion. Returning to Grandfather’s house and submitting to his edicts suddenly no longer looked quite so distasteful, she thought, and turned towards the nearest trunk.

  She had nearly finished sorting through the contents of the trunk when she heard footsteps on the attic stairs. More recent things were likely piled upon the older; the first trunk had contained clothing some twenty years out of date. Fascinating, the brocaded gowns she had found, with their panniers and frills, but not appropriate for her needs. After giving the gown she held, pink satin trimmed with lace, another look, she set it down and turned. “John! I mean, Mr. Winston.”

  “Alana.” He grinned at her, and she glanced away, acutely self-conscious at her mistake. “It’s foolish for us to be so formal with each other. It’s not as if we’re in a London drawing room, after all.”

  Startled, she looked at him. There was something in the way he’d said that, as if he knew more than he possibly could. “I do not think it wise, sir,” she said coolly, carefully folding the gown and replacing it in the trunk. “And I did not give you leave to use my name.”

  “Alana.” He said it thoughtfully. “Pretty name. Are you named for someone?”

  “No.” In spite of herself, she smiled. “My mother was a dedicated romantic. She named me after a character in a novel.”

  “As romantic as Lady Pamela?”

  “No. She didn’t need hearts and Cupids to show her love. There.” She shut the trunk and turned, dusting her fingers together. “Is there something you require?”