"That's quite a parcel," she said, determined to forget last night. Or the last part of last night, in any case. "Thank you. Thank you ever so much."
She threw her arms around him, feeling euphoric when he wrapped his arms around her, too.
Their kiss was sweeter than the fruit ripening in the sun all around them and as heady as the wine it would become. "I hope you'll enjoy it," he said when their lips reluctantly parted.
"Oh, I will. The men delivering it made it clear I was getting in the way, but I can hardly wait to try it." The world seemed brighter this morning, as though the Queen's Bedchamber last night had been no more than a bad dream. She breathed deep of the fragrant air, reaching to touch a bunch of grapes. "How fat they look!"
"In a month, they'll be ready for harvest."
She began walking along the row, touching a plant here and there. "The vines seem so sturdy. Their trunks are so wide."
"Compared to Griffin's vines, you mean?" Sounding amused, he followed behind. "A hundred years from now, their trunks will be wide as well."
"If he can make his vineyard pay well enough to keep it."
"He can make it pay. With the duties raised during wartime to nearly twenty shillings a gallon, French wine is no longer affordable for a man of moderate income. People will be happy enough to stock their cellars with what Griffin produces."
"If it tastes as good as yours does, they will." She paused to pluck a grape and sniff it. "Is this a certain kind of grape?"
"Doubtless, although I confess I don't know the variety. In the old records they're noted only as English sweet-water grapes."
"Well, they make truly wonderful wine," she said, popping the fruit into her mouth.
"I'm glad you think so," he said and added teasingly, "as long as you drink only half a glass at a time." He shot a glance to the other man. "I'm afraid I'm not finished here."
Swallowing the sweet flesh, she nodded. "I must leave, anyway. Ernest must be waiting with our horses. We're going to visit with the final former servant. Lizzy, her name is."
"I wish you wouldn't." A hawk wheeled overhead, and a sudden breeze kicked up, making the vines rustle around them. She saw something twitch in Tris's jaw. "I sleepwalked again last night."
"I'm sorry," she said, meaning it. He looked tormented. "Have you suffered these incidents so closely together in the past?"
"Never. It's always been weeks—if not months or years—between episodes. But this morning, after locking myself in that room, I woke to find the window wide open." He sounded totally disgusted that his plan hadn't worked. "The lock kept me from sleepwalking around the house, so I sleepwalked outside instead."
"Did you wake up outside?"
"No, but that doesn't mean I didn't go out. In the past, I've often ambled around and ended up back in my bed."
"But the Queen's Bedchamber is upstairs. You would have killed yourself climbing out that window. I'm sure you simply opened it because you wanted fresh air." When she saw that he was going to argue, she put a hand on his arm. "Let me go see Lizzy. And then this might be over, and maybe you'll be able to sleep."
He just looked at her for a while. Just looked. And it made something tighten in her chest, because every time she thought they were making progress, stepping forward together, it seemed they took two steps back.
But she had to go see Lizzy. Her sisters were being ostracized already, and this was her last chance to discover information that might lead to a solution for them all. Her last chance to prove to Tris that he wasn't the dangerous man he feared.
"You may not be happy with what you learn from Lizzy," he finally said, the warning sounding bitter on his tongue. "And it's not going to change anything." Then he turned and left her, his shoulders looking tense beneath his dark blue coat as he strode toward the other man.
The hornbeam arch didn't seem nearly as delightful when she traversed it in the opposite direction. And at the other end, Vincent, Hastings, and Mrs. Oliver all stood waiting for her.
"May I help you?" she asked, puzzled.
Hastings glanced at the other two and then spoke for all three. "May we have a word with you, Lady Hawkridge?"
"Of course."
"Lady Hawkridge," Hastings repeated, then stopped.
"Yes?"
"We're concerned," Mrs. Oliver continued. Her kindly chocolate eyes did look concerned. "These mishaps that keep occurring…"
"We fear that if someone did indeed murder the last Lord Hawkridge," Vincent hurriedly finished for her, "he may be trying to kill you now to stop you from finding him."
Alexandra blinked, taken aback by the mere idea. It hadn't, of course, occurred to them that Tris might be causing the mishaps while sleepwalking, since other than Vincent—and she was certain he'd keep Tris's secret—they probably had no knowledge of his night wanderings. But it had never occurred to her that it could be anyone else.
For a moment, her heart raced.
Then she told herself not to be ridiculous. "I appreciate your concern," she said carefully, "but I truly believe both incidents were accidents."
"But what if they weren't?" Hastings asked.
"Everyone has assured me the marquess's death was natural," she reminded him.
"But what if it wasn't?" Mrs. Oliver blurted. "What if there's a murderer among us? Should you continue your investigation, even worse could happen."
It was obvious that recent events had them nervous and suspicious. Even of each other. Mrs. Oliver was looking at Hastings. Hastings was looking at Mrs. Oliver.
And they were both looking at Vincent.
"We brought this up for your own good," Vincent said now, his gaze steadfast. He had too much dignity to shrivel under their scrutiny. "We worry for you. If you would discontinue—"
"I cannot," she interrupted. "You're all dears to worry for my safety, but I must leave no stone unturned in my quest to clear my husband's name."
The three of them exchanged glances and subtle sighs.
"Do please be careful, then," Hastings finally said.
"I will, I assure you. Thank you for coming to me with your concerns. I consider myself very lucky to be surrounded by such caring people."
She watched them walk off, praying that she was right and they were wrong. She felt a little shaky. The thought of Tris attacking her was one thing—she didn't believe it and never would. But the thought of someone else…
She didn't believe that, either, she decided firmly.
And besides, even if it were true…there was a good side to that.
THE QUIET RIDE with Ernest had done little to calm Alexandra's nerves.
She was still shaking when she dismounted in front of Lizzy's small cottage. For the second day in a row, Hawkridge's villagers had stared at her as she rode through. Between that, defying Tris, and dealing with doubts the staff had brought up, she felt like a wreck.
Walking up Lizzy's pretty flower-lined path, she half hoped this interview would lead nowhere, because that would mean this would all be over. No, she thought with a sigh…she didn't really hope that.
But perhaps she felt she should.
The woman who answered the door had soft white hair, kind blue eyes, and a pronounced stoop. "Yes, dearie?"
"Might you be Lizzy?" Alexandra knew that, unlike the others, Lizzy had retired rather than leaving for a new position. Still, she hadn't expected someone quite so old. Lizzy looked ninety if she were a day. "I'm Lady Hawkridge."
"A new Lady Hawkridge!" Lizzy's weathered face crinkled with delight. "Come in, dearie, come in."
Alexandra waved to Ernest where he was patiently waiting with their horses, then stepped inside. The cottage was a single room with a living area on one side and a bed on the other. "Would you care for a sugar cake?" she asked Lizzy, pulling one from her silver basket.
"Why, thank you." The woman pulled a chair out from the simple oak table and gestured for Alexandra to sit. "I will have one, if I may."
"I've been told you were em
ployed at Hawkridge Hall when the last marquess died."
"And for sixty-two years before that." She munched on the cake, seating herself across from Alexandra.
"My husband, the current marquess—"
"I remember your husband, my child." Lizzy licked crumbs off her fingers. "Bless you. It's long past time that dear boy's innocence was proven."
For what must have been the dozenth time, Alexandra's hopes soared. "Did you see anything that night or morning? Anyone suspicious? Have you reason to believe anyone at Hawkridge Hall may have wanted the marquess dead?"
"Alas, no." Lizzy's hand inched toward the basket. "But someone must know something. Whom have you talked to so far?"
"Everyone," Alexandra said with a sigh, handing her another sugar cake.
"Names, dearie. I want names."
Lizzy devoured two more sugar cakes while Alexandra recited the list.
"How about Maude?" Lizzy asked when she was done.
"Maude?"
"The marquess's old nurse—after his wife and children passed on, she was the closest person to him. If anyone saw anything that night, it'd have been she. She left very soon after he passed…I wonder if she's still alive." She reached for yet another sugar cake, her face wrinkling so much in contemplation that her eyes all but disappeared. "Maude was old as dirt even then."
Alexandra felt an urge to laugh, though she wasn't quite sure whether it was from the joy of learning her search wasn't over yet or the wrinkled old woman across from her calling someone else old as dirt. "Do you know where Maude went, by any chance?"
"When she left, she was headed for Nutgrove. Maude was born there, and she said that there she'd die."
Alexandra could only hope she hadn't already.
She gave the rest of the sugar cakes to Lizzy as a thank-you and hurried back outside, unable to believe her good fortune. Not only was Maude her most promising lead yet, but she remembered passing through Nutgrove on the way here. It would be a simple matter to stop and talk to Maude on the way home. And with any luck…
Elated, she slanted Ernest a glance. "Are you up for a good gallop?"
"If my lady pleases," he said stoically.
She mounted, shoved the basket handle over her arm, and lifted the reins.
Tris had an excellent stable, and she had borrowed a fine mare. She flew over the countryside, the horse's hooves pounding the dirt road at a measured, rhythmic clip. Her hat tumbled back, held on only by its ribbons. She laughed, enjoying the fresh air, the light wind, the renewed hope that she might prove successful in this search, after all.
She didn't hear a snap. There was nothing to warn her. Her saddle just slid sideways and off—and she screamed as she went with it.
FORTY-SIX
CLUCKING HER tongue, Peggy placed a glass of water by Alexandra's bedside. "Whatever did you learn from old Lizzy that made you ride off so recklessly?"
"I don't wish to speak of it now. My head hurts."
"Hmmph." Peggy leaned to plump her pillows, which Tristan suspected only made Alexandra's pain worse. "Serves you right for going off without me there to watch out for you. If you ask me, you should go home until all these dangerous happenings cease. I vow and swear, if you ask me—"
"No one asked you," Tristan interrupted, rising from one of the striped chairs. He'd be vowing and swearing if he had to listen to her a single moment longer. "Leave us. Lady Hawkridge needs her rest."
"Well!" Peggy said and took herself out the door, closing it more forcefully than necessary.
Alexandra winced at the resulting bang. "You could be a bit kinder to her."
"Why in blazes do you put up with her?"
"She has her moods, but she's nice and helpful most of the time." She threw off her covers. "I'll have a talk—"
"Stay in bed!"
"I'm fine, Tris." As though to prove it, she sat up and swung her legs off the side. "A little bumped and bruised, is all—"
"You're not fine." He walked closer and slid his hands into her hair, probing gently. His fingers met a hard, raised lump. "No wonder your head hurts."
He'd nearly had a heart attack when Ernest rode up with Alexandra, scraped and bleeding, the two of them sharing the same horse with her mare tied behind. Thankfully, most of her wounds were superficial and had cleaned up rather nicely, but he cringed to see the remaining bruises.
Right now, he was grateful for Juliana's concealing nightgown, even if it was hideous.
He stepped back. "You took several years off my life. You're going to be the death of me, Alexandra, if you don't manage to kill yourself first. Or if I don't manage to kill you instead," he added in a disgusted mutter.
"Don't start that again. You were miles away when this happened."
"Leather straps don't simply split all by themselves. Someone must have cut partway through it sometime before you left." He paced over to the fireplace and leaned an elbow on the mantel, watching her. "Like me, last night, when I climbed out that window."
"Leather can weaken over time," she argued. "And you didn't climb out a window. The room felt overwarm in the night, so you got up, opened the window, and went back to bed." A thread of exasperation—or perhaps desperation—tinged her voice. "Must you make everything more complicated than it is?"
But it couldn't be as simple as she was claiming. This incident fit the pattern perfectly. The window had been wide open in the morning, and he had no memory of opening it. And, once again, his wife had been injured by an accident he'd had clear opportunity to arrange.
"Come sit by me," she said after an awkward moment of silence. She patted the mattress beside her.
He crossed the room and sat, but not too close.
He didn't feel worthy of touching her.
"You would never do anything to hurt me, Tris," she said quietly. "If I believe that, why can't you?"
Because his nights were voids in his memory. Because too many coincidences were impossible to ignore. Because someone else had died on a night when he knew he'd wandered.
He sighed. "This has to stop."
"I can't stop. That would mean dooming my sisters to dreary lives as spinsters and ourselves to an unhappy marriage."
"You must stop. Hastings came to me after you left, along with Mrs. Oliver and Vincent. They said they speak for the entire staff and are concerned that someone may be after you."
"They've all been accidents," she insisted stubbornly.
"What if they weren't accidents, Alexandra? Our own servants are worried for your safety. Have you any idea how frightened that made me while I waited for your return?" He was surprised he had any hair left, he'd run his hands through it so many times. "And then you rode up, all bruised and bloody—"
His voice broke, and he tried for a calming breath. Tried being the operative word.
But he had to calm down, because she was hurt. And seeing her hurt made him hurt in a way that Griffin's fists hadn't. He didn't want to yell at her.
He just wanted to make her understand.
He took a second breath, and then a third before he continued, as calmly as he knew how. "Someone could be after you in order to stop this investigation, or it could be me during my stressful, sleepwalking nights. Either way, you must cease."
"I won't," she said stubbornly.
It seemed she said everything stubbornly. He'd never met anyone quite as stubborn as Alexandra.
That made it very hard to maintain his newly acquired calm. "They're looking at Vincent," he said, the words coming out in a staccato cadence. "He's the only one who was new at the time, and his skin is darker than theirs, and they're looking at him."
"I'm sorry for that." She truly did look sorry. "Is he overwrought?"
He shook his head. "I'm overwrought."
"I'm sorry for that, too. But can't you see, Tris? If these three incidents were accidents, there's no reason for me to discontinue my efforts. And if they weren't accidents, that's even more reason for me to persevere. Because if someone is after me,
that would mean your uncle was, in fact, murdered—and if there's a killer, that means we can find him and clear your name."
Tristan stared at her, mute, unable to believe his own ears. He was stunned by her convoluted logic.
Was he supposed to be grateful she was putting her life on the line in order to prove his innocence?
Well, he wasn't.
He finally found his voice. "Am I to understand you actually think it's good news that someone might be trying to kill you?"
"Yes," she said shortly.
He hadn't been expecting a different answer, but he recoiled just the same. He wasn't sure which would be worse: to have Alexandra's investigation prove he'd committed the murder himself, or to have some other murderer cut short her search by cutting short her life. Either possibility was chilling.
And that wasn't even taking Vincent into account. If this continued, people would be looking for a scapegoat. The man could be prosecuted and convicted regardless of his innocence—a Jamaican ex-slave was unlikely to find justice in this world.
But she was hurt, he reminded himself. And so he said very calmly, "You must stop." And then he remembered something that made him wonder why they were arguing about this. "You're finished now anyway, aren't you? You interviewed Lizzy, and now you're finished."
"I'm sorry," she said, and she really did look sorry again. "But Lizzy gave me another name today. I'm not going to stop until I've talked to Maude."
"Maude." A vivid picture of a sweet old lady flooded his mind. How odd. He hadn't thought of the woman in years. Not at all. It was as though she'd somehow been stripped from his memory.
"You knew her?" Alexandra asked.
"She was a kind woman. Uncle Harold's old nurse. His nanny, actually, when he was a child." For some reason, talking about her was making him feel uneasy, but he couldn't figure why. It was ridiculous, really. "She was his children's nanny after that. And when he lost heart and fell ill, she nursed him all over again."
She shifted on the bed to face him. "Why didn't you tell me about her?"
"I didn't remember her." Strangely enough, it was true. Not that he'd have assisted Alexandra's search even if he had remembered. All he wanted was for her to stop.
Lost in Temptation (Regency Chase Family Series, Book 1) Page 29