Realm 03 - A Touch of Cashemere

by Regina Jeffers

  *

  “My Lord,” Cashé dipped a curtsy as she joined Lexford on the balcony before the baron’s other guests gathered for the evening’s supper.

  “Ah, Miss Aldridge,” he said as he turned to her. “You look lovely this evening.” Kimbolt took her hand to kiss her knuckles.

  Cashé swallowed the urge to jerk her hand away. Although this evening played into her overall plans, she felt disloyal to Marcus. “Thank you, Lord Lexford.” She stood beside the brick banister leading to the upper gardens. “It is good to have you in my uncle’s home again, Sir.”

  “I would have called sooner, Miss Aldridge, but I thought it appropriate to allow you time to recover your family.” He sat on the ledge, making them closer in height. “Yet, you must know, Miss Cashémere, that my heart decried the action.”

  Cashé forced a smile to her lips. “I fear our acquaintance shall suffer this evening. Uncle Charles plans for me to meet many of his dearest friends. That is why I sought you before I am called away to my duties.” She touched his arm lightly to press her point. “I had hoped that I might prevail upon you to call at the end of next week, once Aunt Charlotte and my cousins retire to Shropshire.”

  A full smile lit Lexford’s countenance. “I would be honored, Miss Aldridge.”

  Cashé bit back relief’s sigh. “I must warn you, Lord Lexford, that I have been taking lessons from my sister. You may experience moments when you think yourself speaking to Satiné.”

  Lexford frowned. “I hope not too much so. I find I am quite fond of Cashémere Aldridge.”

  “Yet, my Lord,” she said coyly, “I have taken note of how my sister holds your interest equally as well as I.” Cashé feared Satiné might forget her role, and she meant to counter her twin’s mistakes in advance.

  “Be still, my heart,” Lexford taunted. “Perhaps the lady finds herself jealous of her own sister.”

  Cashé thought, if he only knew. “You cannot claim, my Lord, that my face outshines Satiné’s, as we have the same face,” she reasoned.

  Lexford scowled. “Obviously, there is a marked resemblance, but you wound me, if you think I might not recognize the difference.”

  Cashé tried desperately to hide her amusement, but a smile broke her mouth’s line. “I would hope so, my Lord,” she said merrily, realizing he had not known Satiné had been she when they last met. “You must agree, my Lord, that you and my sister find a commonality, and I plan to make myself more aware of what interests you, Lord Lexford.”

  “I am touched by your willingness to acclimate yourself to my world.”

  Cashé realized her over zealousness; she did not want Lord Lexford’s regard to deepen. She quickly decided on a different tactic. “You must admit, Sir, that Satiné would make any man the perfect companion.”

  “Absolutely,” he acknowledged. “I am certain Lord Yardley would agree.”

  Cashé schooled her expression, but the idea of Yardley preferring Satiné did not sit well with her. “I love my sister, but I cannot conceive of her with the earl,” she countered. “If for no other reason than Northumberland being a much harsher area; Satiné might find survival the shire’s remoteness foreign to her.”

  Lexford looked away, a recognized grief dulling his eyes. “I would not wish the earl to know another loss.”

  Cashé heard Marcus’s voice saying something similar of Lexford. “I agree. Each of us deserves happiness wherever he finds it. I would sincerely wish you such contentment, my Lord, whether that happiness involves me or someone like my sister or even some other woman.”

  Lexford’s gaze narrowed. “That is very magnanimous of you, my Dear, but I have no intention of looking elsewhere.”

  Cashé realized she had pushed her own agenda too hard. “I never meant it as such, my Lord. My words only acknowledged that you and the earl have sacrificed a great deal for ideals in which you believe. It would be an aberration if your sacrifice did not lead to a fulfilling life upon your return home. As Viscount Worthing did with Eleanor and His Grace with Velvet, you must let nothing stand in your way. Choose what makes you happy.”

  “That is a very mature statement, Miss Aldridge,” he observed warily.

  Cashé thought it time to pull in her lines. She was using Marcus’s casting lessons, after all. “I, too, Lord Lexford, have had a less than stellar way, and I am determined to know contentment, and you must promise me that you shall seek the same, no matter which path you must follow.”

  “Of course, Miss Aldridge. I would deny you nothing.”

  Cashé looked over her shoulder to the open doorway. “We must join the others, my Lord. I am certain Uncle Charles is looking for me. Might I have the pleasure of your arm, Sir?”

  Lexford stood and offered his support. “You never cease to amaze me, my Dear.”

  *

  Marcus collapsed into a chair in his chambers. He had fought beside his men and his tenants and the local villagers for hours, but they had managed to save the mill from complete structural ruin; however, he had lost two men in the blaze–two families who would know death intimately. Sometimes, he felt that his efforts brought nothing but evil to Tweed Hall. Exhausted, too weary to argue even with himself, Marcus rubbed his dirty palm over his face. “I need a bath,” he grumbled as he struggled to his feet. “And I need to call on the families of the deceased to assure them I will not turn them out.”

  Tomorrow, he would lead his men in repairing the mill. He held no choice. The harvest rested in the surrounding barns. Winter would call within the next month. His tenants and the estate needed to grind the different crops. Marcus would likely have to work night and day to make things right.

  “That is what happens when I covet what is not mine. It is God’s warning,” he chastised himself, but Marcus knew he could never turn his mind and his heart from Cashé. Even partnered with a touch of wariness, he accepted his fate whole-heartedly.

  *

  Jamot watched the blaze with some pleasure. He assumed Wellston and his household would rush to smother the fire he had started. He had wanted the earl and most of his men away from the house while he had made himself familiar with the manor’s design.

  Amazingly, he had spent more than thirty minutes working his way through the empty hallways, not even meeting a maid or an elderly footman, before he had set the lock on a second story window and made his escape. He would return with the nightfall when everyone dreamed the exhausted sleep of a difficult day. He had already searched for the emerald in obvious locations as he had made his way from room to room. Tonight, he would search for the more secretive places.

  *

  Marcus had no idea what had awakened him. The house creaked and moaned, but every house did as such, so that was of no concern. Yet, he remained on alert. Over the years with Wellington’s army and as part of the Realm, he had learned to listen to his instincts, and those instincts told him something was amiss. He edged the coverlet away from his body and swung his legs over the bed’s edge. Reaching for his breeches, Marcus drew them on before slipping a shirt over his head.

  Another board popped loudly in the hallway, and Marcus retrieved his gun from the nightstand. Someone moved through the empty passageway. A brush of a soft shoe on the carpet told him his suspicions proved accurate.

  Marcus crossed the cold floor of his master chambers–quickly and quietly and eased the latch. Then his heart stopped: A shadow had entered Trevor’s room.

  Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, Marcus slid out into the darkness–clinging to the wall–surveying each dark corner and recess for other intruders. Yet, before he could surprise the interloper, a blood-curdling scream set him into action.

  Marcus burst through the door to Trevor’s room, immediately diving forward and rolling to a squatted position. Gunfire and a guttural scream welcomed his entrance. Marcus, pointing his gun at a man he recognized despite the darkened room, came to stand in the room’s middle. Murhad Jamot held Trevor by the neck, squeezing his brother’s Adam�
��s apple. His sibling tried desperately to free himself, but the Baloch was too strong for Trevor’s pudgy body.

  “Let him go,” Marcus demanded. “Your fight is with me, Jamot.”

  The Baloch grinned sinisterly. “Ah, Berwick, it is nice to know you understand my presence here.” Trevor tried to break away, but Jamot tightened his hold.

  Marcus shot a glance at his brother. “Trevor!” he barked. “Stop fighting him.”

  The anger in Marcus’s voice quailed Trevor’s struggle, and Jamot minutely loosened his hold so his victim might breath again. Marcus silently gave thanks. He knew Mir’s henchman was capable of snapping Trevor’s neck.

  “What do you want?” Marcus growled as he edged closer, trying to get a clear shot. The moon streaked the room’s occupants on the left, and the dying fire added a glow on the right, but Marcus could not delineate Jamot’s and Trevor’s forms completely.

  “The emerald,” Jamot flatly replied.

  Marcus snarled, “There is no emerald.”

  “There is, my friend, and I will find it.” Jamot tugged Trevor backward, dragging him toward the open doorway.

  Marcus and the Baloch were in a slow moving dance of death, each circling to remain facing the other. “If there is an emerald, you will not find it here. I brought nothing with me from Persia besides a hatred for Shaheed Mir’s justice.”

  “You took Ashmita from our camp. You and your friends have stolen our women and our jewels,” Jamot accused.

  “Is that why you are in England, Jamot? You were not enough man to defend the woman you wanted, so you pay your penitence in this blind search?”

  Jamot back stepped to reach the door. “It is you who are blind, Berwick. One of your group knows of the emerald’s existence, and he puts the others in danger. Mir will never rest until the emerald is returned.” As he spoke the last word, he shoved Trevor into Marcus, sending both to the floor.

  Marcus wrestled Trevor off him, ordering his brother to stay in his room, as he rushed into the hallway to follow Jamot. Marcus listened closely to the man’s retreat before giving chase. The Baloch made his way toward the second level. Footmen from the lowest level of the house could also be heard racing toward his location, but Marcus concentrated on Jamot’s breathing. He could hear the fear as another vase crashed to the floor.

  “My Lord?” Jeremy appeared in a doorway, a raised fireplace poker in his hand.

  “Stay with Trevor!” Marcus ordered and began his descent to the lower level–his gun leading the way. He jumped over the banister and landed nimbly on the carpet runner just in time to see Jamot crawling through a draft window. A small salute heralded the Baloch’s escape before the man climbed down a rose lattice.

  Marcus turned instinctively toward the footmen rushing up the main staircase. “Outside!” he ordered, shoving past his men. “He went out the window!” Despite being barefooted, Marcus bolted to the latched doorway, jerking it open, and set off at a run. Rounding the house’s corner, he saw Jamot mount a waiting horse. Although he knew the distance too much for the handgun he carried throughout the chase, Marcus stopped and took aim.

  “Shall we follow him, my Lord?” one of the footmen asked as he skidded to a halt behind Marcus.

  “Have several men secure the area, but our interloper will not return tonight.” Marcus turned toward the house.

  The footman still stared in the direction of the retreating form. “Did you recognize him, my Lord? Should we contact the magistrate?”

  “I will speak to the authorities, but Lord Summers will never find our trespasser. The man will resurface only when he is ready.” He motioned to his men. “Let us see what damage has been done. Send someone to the kitchen and have him bring tea to my brother’s room. Trevor will be quite frightened.”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  Marcus returned to Trevor’s room to find Jeremy with his arms about Trevor’s shoulders, actually rocking Trevor in place. If the situation had not been so dire, Marcus would have found the scene comical. Jeremy was nearly a head shorter and likely three stone lighter, but he encompassed Trevor in his embrace and gave Marcus’s older brother the necessary comfort.

  “Did you catch him?” Trevor demanded as Marcus entered.

  “No.” Marcus surveyed the room. His brother’s clothing lay scattered about the floor. “He had an open window and a waiting horse.”

  Trevor’s lips trembled. “I was afraid the bad man would kill you, and I would be left all alone.”

  “Murhad Jamot cannot kill me,” Marcus said with a false bravado, trying to allay Trevor’s fears. “He tried before, but he is just a hired henchman. Jamot has no real interest in me.” He reached for his brother’s hand to pull him to his feet. “Jeremy will stay with you and help you straighten your room. Someone will bring you tea. I need to secure the rest of the house. I have men outside guarding the grounds. No one will bother us again tonight.” Marcus gave Trevor a brief hug and led him to nearby chairs. “I want you to assist Jeremy with your room.”

  “Yes, Marcus.” Trevor smiled shyly. “You were very brave.”

  “I was very frightened–just like you, but I was trained to fight the ‘bad men’ and to protect others. I will protect you, Trevor. I promised our father that you would always have me.”

  “I know.” Trevor looked at Marcus with renewed admiration. “I loved Myles, but I am glad you are the brother with whom I am to live.”

  “So am I.” Marcus ruffled Trevor’s hair. “Now, I must see to the estate. I will check on you in a bit.”

  *

  Marcus straightened as much of his study as he could. It would need a thorough cleaning, as would many of the rooms. Jamot had rummaged through closets and drawers, searching behind furniture and mirrors and paintings, but besides the mess he had created, the Baloch had caused no real harm.

  Nearing three in the morning, he sat completely exhausted, unable even to muster enough energy to climb the steps to his chambers. Trevor had finally returned to his bed with the condition that Jeremy would make up a palette on the floor before the fireplace. Marcus had written Shepherd, Kerrington, and Fowler to tell them of the attack. He ought to notify the others, but he had convinced himself that Shepherd would see to it, but, in case he judged poorly, he added an additional page to Kerrington’s note, asking his former captain to inform Kimbolt, Crowden, and Swenton. Lowery would know when Shepherd found out. In retrospect, none of his former associates mattered: The only one who mattered to Marcus was Cashé. He needed to warn her, but he was taking a chance. If someone found out, he would be expected to declare himself. That did not scare him as it once had done, but he would destroy his friendship with Kimbolt, and, in reality, he wanted to protect the viscount’s heart.

  “What do I do, Sweetling?” he whispered to the empty room. Marcus took a sip of brandy and listened to his heart. Six weeks ago, Jamot had kidnapped Velvet Aldridge, and Marcus’s life had altered. With a deep sigh, he took up his pen. He had to warn Cashé directly; he would die if she became Jamot’s target. Whether he or Kimbolt acknowledged her, Cashé could become a possible objective for the Baloch. Marcus would make the effort to warn her.

  Ma Chère,

  I must risk sending you this message. I will do everything possible to assure that no one else becomes aware of our communication. Yet, something appalling has happened, and I fear you may be in danger because of it.

  Yesterday, my staff and I were called away to a fire at the mill. It was minor as the damage is reparable, but we lost two good men in the effort. Although I held no inclination of this being more than an accident, this evening’s events lead me to other conclusions.

  Murhad Jamot, the man who took your sister, invaded my home after midnight, briefly taking my brother Trevor prisoner. Unfortunately, the man escaped before I could stop him. Do not stress yourself, my Dear. My family and staff are safe. However, Jamot’s entrance so close to the mill accident appears suspicious.

  Therefore, I am throwing proprie
ty to the wind and am sending you this warning. You are my concern. I cannot bear the possibility of your being in danger. Please, my Darling, take no chances. Allow the baron, and even Viscount Lexford, to offer you protection in my absence. I realize you are a strong, independent woman, but promise me that you will accept the good intentions of others in your behalf.

  I will send this to you by my former batman. Mr. Breeson is an excellent man: He will be very discreet. I must ask you not to tell the others. I am certain Lord Lexford will receive the details from Kerrington, as will your uncle. I simply felt the need to tell you directly, without interpretation. I also wished to allay any fears you might have of my safety if you heard it secondhand.

  Please, my Dearest, practice caution in your actions. You must know my heart rests in your hands. There is not a day to go by without my reflecting on our short time together. I count the days until I see you in London. Your happiness is my only desire, but I pray it lies with me.

  Marcus

  “You sent for me, my Lord?” Marcus looked up to see Breeson standing at the study’s door. Breeson had followed Marcus across Belgium before losing his arm at Waterloo. Upon Marcus’s insistence, Richard Breeson had taken a position on the Wellston estate. Marcus’s father and Myles had both agreed: As long as he lived, Breeson would have a home with the Wellston family. Of course, neither had expected that Marcus would one day be the earl. The man would forever be indebted to Marcus’s family for showing him the respect many of his fellow soldiers knew not.

  “Yes. I need your discretion in delivering a private message.”

  “Of course, Sir.”

  “At first light, I wish you to ride to Manchester and deliver this letter to a certain lady.” Marcus applied the wax to the outside page.