Passion's Song

by Carolyn Jewel

  “Yes, m’lord.” He went out to order the bath. While the water was being brought, he moved to the armoire to hang out his lordship’s clothes. After the tub was full, he helped Alexander undress. “Milord?” Peters said over his shoulder, pausing at the door with his arms full of Alexander’s clothes.

  “Yes? What is it?” He was reaching for the soap.

  Peters thought he looked tired. The strain of these past days was beginning to show in the look of fatigue around his eyes and the tense set of his mouth. “You won’t be going out tonight, milord?”

  “No, Peters. I shall stay in tonight.”

  The valet was relieved to hear him say he would be at home that night. He turned back to brushing out his lordship’s frock coat and was suddenly reminded of something he had found in the pocket of another of his lordship’s coats. He pulled out a dressing gown, and when he went back to drape it over a chair so it would be within his master’s reach, he said, “I’ve brought your snuffbox, milord. It’s in the trunk with your other gear. Do you want me to unpack it?”

  “Snuffbox?” Alexander paused from soaping his chest to look up. “You know I don’t take snuff, Peters!”

  “There was a snuffbox in your blue coat, milord, the one with the black lining? You wore it the day milady—”

  “Unpack it.” He quickly finished his bath and put on the dressing gown. Peters returned with the snuffbox and handed it to him stiffly.

  He frowned as he remembered the day Isobel had been shot. Quite frankly, in all the excitement and terror of that day, he’d completely forgotten about finding the thing. The search for the would-be assassin had been unsuccessful until one of the coachmen wondered out loud where Wickenstand had got to. By the time they realized he had stolen a horse, Wickenstand was long gone. Alexander turned the snuffbox over in his hands, a curious expression on his face. It was a finely made box of enameled gold depicting the duke of Marlborough’s victory at Blenheim and it belonged to the earl of Donbarton.

  “I shall be going out tonight after all, Peters,” Alexander said thoughtfully, all trace of exhaustion gone from his eyes.

  V

  Alexander arrived at Brook’s at ten o’clock. Unless Donbarton was already with his mistress, the chances were excellent Donbarton would show up at the club. He was an inveterate gambler who often claimed to be at a loss when deciding between the seduction of cards or his mistress. Alexander took a table and toyed with the glass and bottle put before him. He had not been much active in London society since his marriage and he found himself having to put up with a great deal of fuss about the recent birth of his sons. Congratulations were offered, toasts to Alexander’s health and to the health of his sons were proposed, and he was forced to listen to several lewd comments about the beauty of his bride and one or two about the rapidity with which she had given him an heir. Alexander took the banter in the spirit in which it was meant, and it wasn’t until he saw Lord Donbarton come in that he excused himself from the group of well-wishers that had surrounded him.

  “Good evening, Donbarton,” Alexander greeted him easily. They had never exchanged much more than pleasantries over cards and there was absolutely no reason to believe the man would want him dead. Donbarton was a Whig, but when the earl had vehemently opposed the marquess on the American war, Alexander had accused him of Toryism. It seemed ridiculous to ascribe that as a reason to kill him. These days, Donbarton spent more time with his horses, cards, and mistress than he did with politics. Still, the possibility that Donbarton was part of some larger plot could not be discounted. Perhaps he and the duke of Mallentrye were in league, though it seemed unlikely. Ludicrous as the idea was, Alexander had found Donbarton’s snuffbox at Hartforde Hall, and he intended to find out how it had got there.

  “Well, Hartforde!” Donbarton smiled and saluted him heartily. “I understand congratulations are in order. A lovely young bride and two strapping sons all in short order!” He clapped him on the back. “’Fore George, Lady Donbarton is green with envy. The old warhorse had her nose put out of joint when she found she was damned near the last one to know!”

  Alexander relaxed a little. He did not believe Donbarton could be so casual around a man he had tried to have assassinated. “I believe I have something belonging to you.” He took out the snuffbox and held it in the palm of his hand. His fingers closed around it when Donbarton recognized it.

  “Damme, if you don’t! I’ve been bloody well down about it since I lost the thing. Belonged to my father, you know. He was going to give it to the duke when he got back from France, but he liked the deuced thing so well he kept it himself. How did you come by it?” Donbarton looked wistfully at the box. It was his favorite and it had been a bitter disappointment to lose it.

  “I found it in Hartfordeshire.”

  Donbarton looked at Alexander with amazement. “Hartfordeshire? ’Pon my honor, Hartforde, that’s bloody peculiar! I expected you to tell me you got it from William Fordham—you know, that little fellow the duke of Mallentrye took such a liking to.”

  “What’s he to do with it?”

  “I lost it to him at hazard!”

  “When was that?”

  “I really haven’t any idea. A month or two, maybe. Why does it matter?”

  “Because some weeks ago an attempt was made on my life, and on that day I found this”—he lifted the snuffbox in his hand—“in my drive.”

  “Gadzooks!”

  Chapter 36

  I

  “Well, you’re the last person I expected to call on me so early in the morning!” Fordham smiled nervously at Alexander when he stepped into the carriage waiting for him. He would have backed down, but, unluckily, the footman had stood in such a way as to make the maneuver impossible. The door clanked shut after him.

  “I’ve discovered we have some business to take care of.” Hartforde thumped on the roof with the carved head of his walking stick, signaling the driver to move on.

  “Really?”

  “Yes. First, of course, there’s this letter.” He pulled it out for Fordham’s inspection. “You recognize it, do you?” A smile curled on his lips. “Then, there’s the additional matter of your attempt on my life.” His voice was smooth. “As you can see, the attempt was bungled. However, my wife was very nearly killed. But perhaps you did not know I was married to Miss St. James some months ago.”

  “And you think I had something to do with it? That’s insane!” Fordham stared nervously at Alexander. “I had nothing to do with any shooting.”

  “I don’t recall mentioning a shooting.” His green eyes narrowed dangerously.

  “Of course you did!” Fordham’s laugh sounded shrill when Alexander shook his head. “A lucky guess, I suppose.”

  “Then, Mr. Fordham, how do you explain my finding this lying in my drive in Hartfordeshire on the very day my wife was shot?” He pulled out the snuffbox and set it carefully on the seat next to him.

  “I don’t have the slightest idea.” Fordham shrugged. “It isn’t mine. I’ve never seen the damned thing before.” His eyes darted to the doors.

  “If you try to jump, I’ll shoot you through,” Alexander said calmly, taking a pistol from his coat pocket and leveling it at Fordham’s heart with a sincere smile. “Lord Donbarton assures me he lost it to you at hazard.” He gave a slight nod downward at the snuffbox.

  “You can’t prove anything!” Fordham snarled.

  “ ’Tis only a matter of time ’til I find Wickenstand. But I can prove it without him. Do you know how I got this letter?” He waited a beat. “From Ian Boxham—who, I understand, knows a great deal of what went on between you and Mallentrye.”

  “What’s the point of all this?”

  Alexander crossed his legs, casually resting the pistol on the top of his knee. When Fordham laughed nervously, Hartforde smiled and softly said, “Ah, yes, you wanted to know the point. I am giving you a great honor. Normally I would simply kill vermin like you. I intend to give you a sporting chance. The
choice of weapons is yours.”

  “You mean to duel?” He was horrified.

  “I mean to kill you, but you may call it a duel if you choose.”

  “I haven’t a second!”

  “I’ve taken the liberty of seeing to that. We’ll be picking up our seconds shortly.”

  A few minutes later, the carriage pulled to a stop. When the door opened, Lord Burke and another man climbed in. “Mr. Peters, here”—Alexander indicated the man who sat next to him—“has agreed to be your second. Mr. Peters is my valet, and I assure you, he is a good man, and better than you deserve. This is Charles, Lord Burke. He is my second. We should be arriving at any moment. What weapon do you choose?”

  It was not yet six o’clock when the carriage drove up St. James’s Street, slowed, then turned into the secluded little court on the east side of St. James’s, where it pulled to a stop. Pickering Place was the spot preferred for the settling of affairs of honor because it offered a good deal more privacy than the parks. A few minutes later a second carriage arrived. A small man dressed in somber clothes alighted and, after conversing a few moments with Lord Hartforde, took up a spot on the street well away from the other men.

  “Pistols,” Fordham said.

  “Very well,” said Alexander.

  II

  Some quarter of an hour later, the small man was bending over a body, probing with practiced fingers. “Well, will he live?” Peters cried.

  “No, I expect he will not.” The doctor ignored the valet’s outburst and peered into the dying man’s face. “Ah, ’tis over, then.” He sighed and, dropping the wrist he had been pressing to feel for a pulse, pulled the eyes shut with the fingers of one hand. Still bending over the corpse, he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the blood from his fingers.

  “Then, my man, you’d best be on your way,” Alexander said calmly. When the physic had removed all traces of what had just transpired, the three remaining men got back into the carriage and waited.

  At half past six, another carriage arrived at Pickering Place.

  “Duke,” Alexander said grimly to the last of the three men who alighted from the carriage. “My Lord Fistersham.” He nodded to the duke’s second, then briefly to the physic.

  “Are you sure, Hartforde, you agree to pistols?” Mallentrye laughed.

  “I assure you, Your Grace, my aim is excellent. I have every intention of killing you.”

  “You’re a damned fool, Hartforde!”

  “I should be a damned fool, Your Grace, if I let you destroy both my marriages. Are you ready?”

  Mallentrye gave his strange barking laugh again. “Indeed, Hartforde, I am ready.”

  At a quarter to seven the physic bent over yet another body, and at five minutes to the hour, Pickering Place was deserted.

  Chapter 37

  I

  “Ah, Lord Hartforde! I’ve been expecting you. Lady Hartforde intimated you might be round shortly.” Mr. Avery, the solicitor, made a neat bow.

  “You’ve seen her?” Alexander felt himself go limp with relief.

  “Why, of course, milord! She was here, oh, one or two weeks ago—several days, at any rate. If you will forgive me, milord, she insisted you were seeking a divorce.”

  “I have no intention of divorcing my wife.” Alexander sat down heavily.

  “Then I must inform you that she intends to take you to law, my lord. Though ’tis my opinion if you oppose her in the matter, there’s little chance she’ll succeed. This puts me in mind of Lord Vane and his unfortunate wife”—he looked startled when he realized what he had said—“though there is absolutely no indication she is with someone else, nor, I am sure, my Lord Hartforde, have you mistreated your wife.”

  “Where is she?” He was close to throttling the man.

  “Well, let me see if I can find the bill….” Mr. Avery began rummaging through the voluminous amount of paper scattered over his desk. “I took the liberty of sending her to your banker…assured her any preliminary extraordinary bills would be paid…until I had further instructions from you, my lord. I hope it is not against your lordship’s wishes in the matter.” He peered up at Alexander. “The clerk must have the deuced thing. Mr. Watterby!” he shouted. “Divorces generally take some time.” He continued looking through the papers. “I hope you understand that, in the meantime…obliged for her upkeep, milord. Though if you prefer to cut her off, ’twould be no great difficulty, either.”

  “Blast you, man! I’ve told you I have no intention of divorcing my wife. Just tell me where she is!”

  “Glad to hear it, my lord. Ah! Here ’tis! Never mind, Mr. Watterby!” he shouted. “I’ve found it.” He waved the clerk out of the room. “Jermyn Street, St. James’s Hotel.” He was about to drop the paper back onto his desk when Alexander leaned forward.

  “Give me that!” He snatched the paper from his hand and was out the door before the surprised attorney could say another word.

  II

  For the second time that day, Alexander’s carriage came down St. James’s Street. This time, though, it turned onto Jermyn Street and pulled to a stop at the St. James’s Hotel. He had to give the clerk a five-pound note before he learned that Isobel’s rooms were on the second floor, in the back. Impatiently, Alexander knocked loudly on the plain wooden door. Just as he was about to give up and rouse the proprietor for the key, the door swung open. “Lady Hartforde is not at home today,” said the servant who pulled the door open. “Would you care to leave your card?”

  “I assure you, madam, she will be at home to me.” Alexander pushed past the surprised woman and strode into the room. He found Isobel in a sparsely furnished sitting room. She was holding one of the twins, and John Faircourt was holding the other. A young woman, obviously the nurse, stood a respectful distance from them. When Faircourt saw Alexander storm in, he handed the baby to the nurse, then jumped up.

  “Will you please excuse us?” Alexander asked.

  “My lord.” Faircourt bowed and looked nervous. “I fear I cannot go”—he looked at Isobel—“unless her ladyship desires me to. She has told me—”

  “Send him away, Isobel”—he half drew his sword—“or I shall run him through on the spot!”

  “Perhaps you’d best go,” Isobel said softly.

  “If you insist, Lady Hartforde.”

  “I do.”

  “As you wish.” He looked rather relieved as he bowed over her hand. “My lord.” He inclined his head at Alexander.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded when Faircourt was gone.

  “I came to take you back to Albemarle Street—where you belong.”

  She gave a short laugh. “Have you forgotten the duke? And, of course, now you’ve seen me with John Faircourt.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said, eyes locked with hers so she was unable to look away. “With any luck, the duke is dead by now, and if I thought it was necessary, I’d kill Faircourt, too.” He reached to touch her cheek. “I love you, Isobel.”

  “Do you?” she whispered.

  “I suppose I deserve that.” He laughed and shook his head. “I do love you, Isobel. I was a bloody fool to believe you would go to Mallentrye. I was an even greater fool not to admit to myself how I feel about you.” Isobel tore her eyes away from him. The emotion in his voice was bringing an uncomfortable lump to her throat. She was startled when he crossed the room and went down on one knee before her. “All I know is that I’d follow you to Hades and back again.” He lifted her hand to his lips. “I know I told you I’d divorce you, but I didn’t mean it, not ever. I’ve been wanting to beg your forgiveness and tell you how much I love you. I listened to that damned physic when he said I should leave you alone until you were recovered. I was frantic when you left! I thought I would go out of my mind! I’ve been all over this bloody town looking for you, and now that I’ve found you, I want there to be no more misunderstandings. I love you, Isobel, as I’ve never loved anyone.” When she said nothing, he whispered, “Did y
ou save my life only to take it away from me now?”

  Isobel listened to Alexander and wondered why she felt nothing. “You’re saying what I’ve longed to hear, and I ought to be falling into your arms and telling you I love you, too, but—” She shook her head. “I look at you and still think you are the most beautiful man I have ever seen, but it’s as though my heart is shut off from all feeling. I’ve wished for so long that I didn’t love you…maybe I’ve got my wish,” she said softly. “I don’t know what to say, Alexander.”

  He kissed her hand again, and when he lifted his head she saw tears glistening in his eyes. “I’ll make you love me,” he said. He stood up and, taking the infant from her, cradled him in his arms. Tiny fingers gripped his, and as he smiled down at the child he saw his eyes were just beginning to turn green.

  “That’s Laurence Alexander, and this is Charles St. James,” the nurse said in a choked voice when she saw Lady Hartforde would not, or perhaps could not, answer.

  “Well, young man,” he said to his son, “shall we go home?”

  Chapter 38

  I

  “Milord, my lady’s things have arrived. I’ve had them sent to her room,” Mrs. Peaslea said after giving a quick curtsy.

  “Very good, Mrs. Peaslea,” he answered, without looking up from his desk.

  “M’lord?”

  “Yes?” He looked up impatiently.

  “This must have been mixed up with my lady’s things.” The woman held out a bulging leather case. “Though I don’t know as why she’d have it.”

  “Put it here.” He pointed to the comer of the desk. When she was gone, he picked up the case and looked at it. The housekeeper had not known it was Isobel’s because the initials embossed on it were I.F.B. His curiosity got the better of him and he opened the case to pull out the sheaves of crisp paper that filled it nearly to bursting. It was music, page after page of it. He barely recognized the scrawled hand as his wife’s. The manuscript of her first symphony was there, and as he sorted through the papers, he found there were three more symphonies, a violin concerto, and several shorter pieces for the fortepiano. From the dates he could find, she must have been writing almost constantly during the time she was at Hartforde Hall. He put the manuscripts carefully back in the case and ordered up the carriage.