by Baird Wells
Despite their exchange in the garden, and whatever her feelings, Alexandra was giving him nothing but sand to grab. He watched until she slipped from view above the staircase, resolving for now to let her go.
“...Reed can take us all up to the promontory for a basket lunch.” Laurel had stopped playing, addressing the little gathering.
“There is no grasping the English fascination with dining out of doors. Eating on the ground like savages.” Paulina shuddered.
“The savages don't eat off of the ground,” said Chas.
“Don't contradict.”
Silence filled the room wall to wall, Laurel dusting at her music stand, John picking an imaginary thread at his sleeve. Spencer hardly noticed. He was too busy wondering what kept any man married to Paulina from taking his own life. Or hers.
Finally, he cleared his throat. “I have matters that require my attention. As Lady Hastings knows and loves her little spot, I shall promote her and place her in command of your party.” He raised a hand, cutting protests and tongue clucking. “A diversion Saturday night. You have my word.”
“I am fatigued,” announced Paulina, as though he hadn't been speaking.
“We do not walk to the promontory,” offered Laurel, “We ride. Your husband accounts you a fine horsewoman; you would appreciate the terrain.”
A sniff. “My skill is rarely tested. I suppose we'll see if the course is all you claim.”
Silently thanking the Lord, Spencer exhaled, not realizing he had been holding his breath. He flushed with the same near death sensation he’d had on the battlefield; the prospect of being alone in the house an entire day with Paulina Paton sounded like his definition of hell.
* * *
Damn Paulina, the hateful old battle ax.
Alix planted her slipper against a claw foot, tottering a chair and pacing while she fought for a hold on her temper.
Her failed tryst in the garden had likely been the closest she would come to living out from under Paulina's prying gaze, at least until she could leave the harpy behind for good. Curse John and his good-natured obliviousness for spoiling it. Curse Lord Reed and his mention of the garden, so much salt grinding at her wound.
He was being civil, graciously making conversation with no idea of the trouble he was causing. His attention had stirred up a hive of suspicion in Paulina, making it almost impossible to enjoy his company. She had more than once contemplated engaging him just to spite her sister-in-law, indulge a bit of defiance. Only twice had she dared to defy them. Not heeding Silas’s pompous edicts the first time, Alix recalled how painful it had been learning her lesson the second time, with Edward.
She should have kept going when the ship reached Carolina and never allowed Silas to bully her onto land. She should have been more careful, cleverer about leaving. Silas had used her absence to get control of her shares while Paulina had invented a bizarre tale to explain her absence. Married quickly, Paulina had hinted to their neighbors, and widowed just as quickly. The woman's story had painted Alix in just enough gray to make her an object of disapproval without shaming Paulina or her dear father. It had also guaranteed that Alexandra could entertain no suitors for a year during her imaginary mourning. Meanwhile, she’d been forced to march to the beat of Silas Van der Verre's drum, too fearful of what he might do to Chas or Paton & Son, what he might do to her, to step out of line.
Not fearful enough to marry the bastard. He hadn't managed to compel her, not yet. Alexandra knew better than to think he'd given up. She shuddered against memories of his attempts at courtship, not having to wonder how far he would press her.
Too agitated to sleep, Alix took her candle and slipped out into the darkened hall. The flame spilled light through the scrolled iron railing, casting shadowed vines onto the wall as she padded down the staircase. Gilt frames winked and flickered when she cupped a hand to shield the wick, and ancient brush-stroke eyes followed her progress to the main hall where a single lamp bathed the white marble tiles in amber. Roses overflowed their blue china bowl on a nearby table, a sweet perfume drifting past her. Their presence might have surprised her, out of place in the home of a bachelor, except that she’d noted similar touches throughout the house all day. Flowers, a fine cashmere throw, good chocolate set out in the parlor; it seemed Lord Reed was attentive to his female guests. Alix turned him over in her mind once again, wondering at what lay beneath his brusque exterior.
She had miscounted the doors along the hall, and realized once inside that she’d missed the library. This was Lord Reed’s private study, she guessed. A desk commanded one corner of the room, its domain framed in by the rectangle of a thick Persian rug and set at an angle to a high fireplace.
Good manners demanded she turn back. Private rooms were just that: private. Curiosity whispered for her to dare a step further, creep to the window and see the view as Lord Reed did each day. It urged her to study the bric-a-brac atop his desk and mantle, search for clues to puzzle the man out. Her candle’s light caught the glass front of a floor-to-ceiling case on the far wall, silhouetting its murky contents. With a glance off her shoulder, Alix invaded the study by inches.
When she reached the case, she raised her candle and tipped its light inside. She’d expected to find medals, mementos of Lord Reed’s military exploits. Instead she was greeted first by an acorn-shaped idol, teeth bared across his pitted stone face. A gold scarab glinted back, mounted on crimson velvet inside a dark wood frame, the pattern of his thumb-sized carapace carved with ancient craftsmanship. A silver case the size of a shoebox occupied the lower shelf, religious figures stamped in relief on each side. Its lid was propped half open to display the wealth contained inside: silver bands embracing milky emeralds, hand- minted gold coins, and a fairytale diadem set with almond-sized rubies. A scrap of brocade was framed beside the chest. Red, blue, and gold silk strands held a trace of their original luster, woven into a splendid garment, a royal gown or tunic, hundreds of years before.
Alix held her breath, illuminating each treasure in turn. Cathedral stones, tattered flags, lacy tarnished keys; she wondered at the story of each, lost in the past.
“Mrs. Rowan.”
She’d been so lost that she’d forgotten her trespass, forgotten to be on guard for footsteps in the hall. Alix gasped and pivoted on one foot, eyes fixed to the floor. She couldn’t meet his eyes, had no excuse.
“I saw the light and thought someone had forgotten to extinguish a candle.” Rather than accusing, Spencer’s words were curious, and something else she couldn’t identify.
It was ingrained in her to hide the truth, but where Spencer was concerned, it was impossible to lie. “Lord Reed, I apologize. My aim was the library, but when I saw the case…” She turned back and waved a hand across it, “I was drawn in. That’s no excuse for my intrusion.”
He was behind her. Warmth filled the scant space between their bodies. She caught the spice of his cologne, a familiar scent she didn’t recall noticing before. He reached past her, a sturdy shoulder pressing her back, and ran a hand along one side of the display. “I would argue there is no better excuse.” His words brushed her ear. Eyes closing, she swallowed and fought an urge to lean into him.
“You’ve curated an impressive collection,” she stammered, wishing she was more glib in moments like these.
Spencer chuckled and moved beside her, setting distance between them. “This is all Bennet’s work, actually.”
“Not to offend, but your brother doesn’t strike me as a collector.”
“Bennet doesn’t collect.” Spencer said. “He … acquires.”
She frowned. “I don’t understand.”
Spencer tapped the glass. “That statuette? Recovered from a cave in Brazil. Natives chased him back to his ship at spear point and nearly skewered him.” She followed the path of his finger until it rested before the fabric she’d admired. “A scrap of canopy from the bed in which Elizabeth of York was conceived. Bennet and his crew discovered the chest in a crypt,
taken from England during the civil unrest. It was tucked away by Spanish looters beneath an abandoned cathedral in Portugal.”
She blew a breath between pursed lips. “You were serious when you called him an adventurer.”
He was staring now, watching her. She caught a glint of his eyes in the candle’s glow while keeping her own fixed on the artifacts. A chill ran up her back, helped along by cool skin where his heat had left her moments before, and Alix realized she was frightened. Not of Spencer’s intentions, not of being alone with him. She was frightened of herself any time he was near. He stoked embers inside she’d banked long ago, flames she couldn’t risk kindling now, when she was so close to realizing a victory over Paulina and Silas. What frightened her most was how delicious it felt each time she gave in to temptation, teased him or returned a glance, igniting the same impulsive passion she’d enjoyed with her stranger.
Her stranger. She shivered again at the memory of rough fingers grasping her naked thigh. He’d been a risk, and yet so much safer than Lord Reed. A few minutes of passion, a brief, anonymous respite from her rigid existence; she could dare that much. The way Spencer watched her now, in the flickering light...it was too dangerous.
Spencer cleared his throat and broke their silent exchange. “I imagine you and Bennet would have a great deal to discuss.”
Now she dared to meet his eyes. “Why is that?”
He rested a hip against the case and laced arms over his chest, threatening in his ease. “You are both adventurers, by my estimation.”
“You’re teasing me.” She relaxed and smoothed a hand over the cabinet door, mind drifting to better days. “I suppose I was an adventurer, once.”
Leaning in, he peered at her until she laughed and moved a step away.
“But no longer?” he prodded.
“Not at the moment. A temporary state,” she promised.
“Mm. Cryptic. But I think I take your meaning.” He claimed her candle from the side table and swept a hand toward the door. “In that case, I look forward to witnessing your renaissance.”
At the heat of his palm ushering her, pressed against her back, she wished dearly that he could.
CHAPTER EIGHT
If Laurel hadn't told him that the sound from upstairs was a person, Spencer would have believed his hounds had gotten inside the house. Another round of barking drew Laurel up beside him as they shuffled upstairs. Chas, coming down, paused and shook his head. “Not the worst attack I've ever seen, but she's not fit to go out.”
“Should we send for a physician or...” Laurel held out her hands.
“Nothing to be done. Rest, hot tea, an open window.” Chas shrugged. “Eventually it passes. Just wish I knew what brought it on in the first place.”
A flat drone to Chas’s concern pricked at Spencer, who narrowed his eyes and studied the other man. For what, he couldn’t quite say.
“I should stay in with her,” insisted Laurel, gathering her skirts.
Seeing his first opportunity for solitary reconnaissance, Spencer had no intention of relinquishing it. He caught Laurel’s arm. “It will do you no good, as Mister Paton has said. The fit must run its course.” He pressed her shoulder. “Go; I'm already obliged to stay in. Someone will be at home, should Mrs. Rowan need anything. Ill as she is, she can hardly want company.”
If she was ill. He was growing less convinced by the day that Alexandra was as frail as everyone claimed, despite the ragged hacking upstairs. Her cryptic remark in his carriage tickled at a suspicion, stoking a desire to unravel the mystery that was Alexandra Rowan.
Tension melted from Laurel's shoulders and Chas, for his part, kept the same weary expression as they went down together.
Spencer stationed himself in the front hall long enough that he was useful to Laurel, and to see everyone packed up and bustled out. After, he stood in the quiet shadows a moment, appreciating the complete silence. He couldn’t help but notice an end to the coughing above, and wondered that it coincided so perfectly with everyone’s leaving.
For now, he would listen and wait. Nothing in his study required immediate attention, despite what he'd told the others. He passed it by, opting instead for his favorite room, the library. Settling into a deep brown leather chair, Spencer tucked himself into a corner between two high windows where he closed his eyes and soaked in mid-morning sun.
He missed the army, the sharp sounds of drill, the synchronized volley of musket fire. He longed, sometimes, for the cheers and shouts of his men around their tents in the evening. The cacophony of London traffic with its stiff clothes and stiffer manners was hardly a substitute, and he made do instead with comfortable silence.
A creaking door figured briefly into his quiet moment. Household staff came and went throughout the day, not an event to break his respite.
When a feminine sigh reached his ear, he bothered cracking an eye. Alexandra, swathed in a flattering yardage of sky blue silk, raked book spines with a knuckle. She perused the shelves across the room in silence, oblivious to his presence.
She looked hale and whole for a woman bedridden an hour ago. Slouching deeper in his seat, Spencer rested a cheek to his fist and watched her. She was softer today, her hair piled in a mound that was calculated to tempt a man’s hand. Light silk fell from a high-cut bodice, catching the fullness of her hips swaying with each step. Slender fingers, fingers whose touch he’d recalled in private moments, pulled down a book, cradled and inspected it, then traded it for another. He drank in her movements until she paused for a narrow red canvas tome that met her approval.
She slid it atop a long oak table dividing the shelves from the rest of the library and tossed a crisp white apron down beside it. She snapped the chair forward, bumping the table in her eagerness, and pried back the cover.
Reaching the peak of self-torment, Spencer cleared his throat.
Her chair rocked, pages fanned and she gasped. Certain she’d go straight over backwards, he started up to catch her.
Recovering before he could close the distance, she pressed a hand to her chest, panting.
“Mrs. Rowan.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Were you going to say anything?”
He chuckled, caught. “Were you?”
She fixed him with a stare that he was only too happy returning. For a breath, there was something familiar deep in her gaze, a glimmer of the challenge she’d given him at the masquerade. Then it banked, cooling the blue of her gaze even as he willed it to stay.
Alexandra ducked her head, studying the tabletop. “I thought everyone had gone out,” she muttered.
Everyone, including him. Spencer took her point, hating a sting in his chest. “Everyone who wished to, has. I stayed behind because I have business to attend to, and because Lady Hastings was concerned about your health.” His last word hung between them in the library's silence.
Shifting in her chair, she looked away and then got up. “I should be upstairs resting.”
She snatched her apron, flinging something from its pocket which pelted against the floor. It struck with a sharp tinkling of glass and rolled to him over polished wood as though drawn by his curiosity.
She rushed him, but he’d already pinched up a long glass vial half filled with rust tinted powder. He shook its contents, squinting to identify the tiny grains. Holding it up to her wide eyes, he waved the bottle. “What is this?”
She swallowed, eyes fixed on her lost property, and kept silent.
“Hm.” Spencer pulled the chipped cork from its neck and waved the vial under his nose. An itch, first along the roof of his mouth and then in his throat. Burning followed, high in his nose. Coughs wracked his chest and Spencer plugged the bottle before more could escape. Burying his face in his sleeve, he dodged her snatching fingers, tucking the prize into his pocket. He patted his aching breast.
“You could have warned me when I removed the cork,” he panted.
She smiled, and for a moment he recognized her. It was a genuine smile, unguarded, a
nd he decided it had been worth damaging his lungs.
“I could have,” she admitted, unrepentant.
He rallied, not willing to give her the upper hand. “Coughing fits? Seems your affliction is more culinary than chronic.”
She exhaled, a sound resigned to being caught. “Paulina gave me the idea, if you can believe it. Not directly, of course, but she’s always fiddling with her herbs and tonics.”
“Hm.” He could not believe it, struggled believing Mrs. Paton had time for anything beyond feasting upon her husband’s sanity.
“Are you going to tell anyone?” Her eyes narrowed; he was being reconnoitered.
He tried sounding severe. “Lady Hastings was very worried about you.”
She stiffened. “You're enough acquainted with my brother and his wife by now to grasp why I’d resort to subterfuge for a moment’s peace.”
Manufacturing a seemingly genuine illness was not a moment's peace in his book. It was, however, an awful lot of trouble to go through for a few hours alone. “You are not of an age where you can demand it?”
She flushed. “I am not in a position to demand it.” She didn’t elaborate, and he didn’t press her. Instead, he added one more question to his ever-growing list.
Alix looked him over again, worrying her lower lip. “Will you keep my secret or no?”
She had given him fantastic leverage and he seized the opportunity. “On one condition.”
Her eyes widened.
Gathering his courage, he blurted, “Spend the afternoon with me.”
A long glance over her shoulder was telling as any words. She wanted to say yes despite a hunted look. He was certain she would agree if he could promise her the peace she sought.
“An hour out, an hour back. Time to appreciate the view and grow weary of your brother’s wife. They won't return until three, at least.”
An ounce of tension drained from Alexandra. He caught the slightest drop to her shoulders. “Blackmail, then?” Her smile was hesitant, teasing, skipping his heart. “If that's your game, then I suppose I have no choice but to play along.”