by Sophia Nash
“And now?”
“He sold it all, within the last year of his life.”
“Why, you must be a very rich man, then, Paxton, albeit hugely tarnished by your association with trade. I don’t know how you tolerated it to begin with. Tell me, was it worth it?”
He should be outraged. He should be honorable. He should be blustering. Paxton was not. He was, instead, captivated by the item on the collar, which he had finally divined was a container of sorts.
“Pardon me, um . . . I’m afraid the sight of a token from my wife’s pet has, indeed, undone me. Will you excuse me if I take my leave of you now? I find I must return home if only to spare others my grief.”
“One can only keep one’s mourning in hiding for so long, Paxton. I fully understand your predicament. I shall tell my great-aunt that she must call on you, to better her acquaintance with the only other gentleman of worth in Cornwall. I’m certain she would enjoy sampling offerings from your gardens as well.”
His face became gray. “You are too kind,” he croaked. But Paxton was already off the couch and backing away toward the door, as if Alex was the Prince Regent himself.
With his departure, Alex crossed the room, locked the door, and pocketed the key—eliminating all chance of escape.
When he turned to face her, she was brushing the wrinkles from the tight-fitting gown before she spoke. “And just what was that bit about Eddie’s collar?”
“A way to further your objective.”
“My objective?”
“To make your husband realize that an asylum is a place he should very soon desire to make his residence above all things.”
“And what is in this famous canister?”
“Just a scrap of paper.”
“A scrap of paper.”
“Yes. A rude map of Paxton’s estate with quite a lot of Xs in certain spots.”
She bit her lips to keep from smiling, but the crinkles near her lovely eyes gave her away. “You took the trouble to go to Paxton Hall?”
“Um, no,” he lied as he took a step closer to her.
“Really?”
“I have no time for such nonsense.” He closed the gap between them. “Sent someone else,” he said, voice lower.
Her expression confirmed she didn’t believe a word he said. “I see. And the Xs . . .”
“Are in the gardens, I suppose. You did say Paxton is particularly partial to his smelly roses.” Alex drew her close and nudged with his nose a curl next to her ear.
“And irises,” she whispered.
“And his ancient, deep-rooted flowering bushes—impossible to replace.” He kissed a pulse point on her temple.
“Um, do you know where I could find a dozen or so hungry moles?” Her eyes sparkled.
“You are the least romantic creature I’ve ever encountered,” he whispered.
She giggled in that fashion he was beginning to relish. A deep throaty sound that made him happy—a most curious sensation he’d almost forgotten.
Chapter 7
For some ungodly reason, the next morning Alex awoke with the chickens, something he had not done since his boyhood and his stint serving Napoleon, which he was loath to remember.
He realized why he was awake when he felt warm quivering along his gut.
Her bloody dog was in his bed again, dreaming about chasing rabbits or Paxton, no doubt. The canine, he had learned, was as fickle in his choice of sleeping partners as a Hyde Park light-skirt, and snored just as loudly. In fact, Eddie made the rounds most nights, worming his way under Mémé’s bedclothes, or his own whenever the dog skulked away from Roxanne’s distant chamber. Alex rolled onto his back and the entire massive bed heaved and creaked. This was Eddie’s reveille, and the mutt tunneled his way up from the darkness and licked Alex’s face, leaving traces of decidedly pungent dog breath.
In dawn’s early chill, Alex gave up any pretense of trying to sleep and hurriedly dressed without calling for his valet. The dog danced about on his legs until Alex ordered him to stop. Eddie dropped his front paws to the floor and tilted his funny white head with the one large black spot eye.
A quarter hour later found Alex walking the perimeter of St. Michael’s Mount, an uncertain peace settling over him. Eddie trotted ahead of him into the western shadow of the Mount. Instinctively, Alex glanced up. Several workmen were already laying new stone work to repair the crumbling edifice of the turret. A small plume of an unknown emotion bloomed in his chest.
He’d approved the plans of Mr. Townson in the end, and had sent the pessimistic, more experienced Mr. Wooling on his way. It had pleased his young chicken keeper, John Goodsmith, to no end. The thought brought a smile to Alex’s face.
It had also pleased Roxanne Vanderhaven. He refused to consider why that mattered to him.
The Prince Regent had ordered him out of London, and demanded he rebuild and fortify the duchy’s ancient fortress that had probably seen more sieges as England’s southernmost outpost than any other castle. He was only following a royal directive, something he knew how to do when it suited him. If in the end he could not bring himself to satisfy the king’s other order, that of marrying one of the aristos the prince had hand selected, he might as well attempt to curry the favor of the future king by rebuilding the fortress. Yes, those were all the arguments he used instead of admitting the obvious.
The Mount was seducing him with its familiar beauty, which jogged long-dormant memories of happiness of a long time ago. He didn’t want to remember. He wanted only reminders that nothing ever stayed the same. It was better to count on very little than to be disappointed.
The sun slowly ascended the rose-colored sky and Alex was rooted to the spot, his temples pounding in remembrance. He turned away only to find the young hermit standing not twenty yards from him, leaning against a large oak.
The boy was too well-mannered to speak before spoken to. “Well, John, what say you of Mr. Townson’s work so far?”
“He chose wisely at the quarry, sir.”
“And?”
“And what, sir?”
“The form of the turret. It looks off. It appears slightly different.”
“Not to me, Your Grace,” the young man said gently.
It was what Alex liked most about John. He was unafraid to voice his opinion. “It is not too small?”
“Not from my memory,” John halted. “And not upon close inspection of the painting in the gallery.”
“Hmmmm. I suppose I am remembering Mont-Saint-Michel.”
“Would you tell me about it, Your Grace?”
Alex looked into the depths of John’s brown eyes and wondered if he himself had ever been that innocent. Without thinking, he poured out what he had not dared to speak of the last two decades. “My family in France always said this smaller castle was similar to our greater masterpiece. Just as the Archangel Michael appeared here, he appeared earlier on the larger outcropping of granite off of the Normandy coast and ordered a French bishop to build a church there.” Alex looked at John, who did not smile. The young man was as silent as a statue. Waiting . . .
“I merely thought of Mont-Saint-Michel as my home. The most wonderful, mystical place in the center of the universe.”
The words hung in the early morning mist.
“Now it’s a prison,” Alex continued slowly, forcing the flames out of his mind as he was adept at doing. “My family and all the monks were,” he inhaled slowly and softened the truth, “forced out. Valuables were sacked, and now the chambers are cells holding opponents of the republican regime. It was and is an epic waste.”
John Goodsmith turned his gaze to the turret. “Father always said you can try and change the past and get nowhere or you can try to shape the future. But at all times we must embrace the present moment.”
Alex finally laughed, glad to relieve the tension that had built in his chest. “Your father was a very intelligent man.” Without thought, Alex tousled John’s fine dark hair and swung his arm about the you
nger’s thinner shoulders to urge them both along the path toward the castle. There was something about being with this young, wise man that did him good and gave him ease. “Come on, then. Tell me more about Mr. Townson’s bloody ideas. I suppose we could go up there and I can worry the man into a faster pace if only to get the hell out of here all the sooner.”
John’s face dimmed. “Well, sir, may I tell you about the idea I had for the—”
They ground to a halt as a flurry of females emerged from the castle’s entrance. What on earth . . .
Lord, every last marriageable female had set their sights on him. Only a small group strolled in the rear: Roxanne, her arm linked with Isabelle, and the four plain sisters of Candover chatted gaily beside them. But the others . . .
The horse-lover, Lady Katherine Leigh, held the lead narrowly to Lady Pamela Hopkins, whose lips were thin with exertion to keep pace with the former. Lady Judith Leigh trotted as stately as she could with the dainty Lady Susan Moore and her widowed mother. Only Lady Christine Saveron contained herself despite the frequent tugging by her younger sister Lydia.
If this did not prove that thirteen was, indeed, an unlucky number then nothing ever would. He would never have dreamed that he would one day want to run from females.
“I suppose I should see to the chickens, Your Grace.”
“Oh no, you don’t,” he said grimly. “At least not alone, you won’t.”
“What?”
A tumble of trouble rolled to a stop, breathless. “Your Grace,” Lady Katherine Leigh said, her cheeks pink with excitement. “I do beg your pardon, but I adore early morning strolls and I chanced to see you from my chamber’s window.” She breathed deeply to exhibit her delight but before she could go on, Lady Pamela Hopkins stepped into the breach.
“I thought you preferred riding, Katherine.”
“Riding, strolling . . . I am very flexible in my tastes, as well you know, Pamela. Actually, I thought you preferred cards to taking the air.”
There was nothing worse than a cat fight, Alex thought. He had to escape the hissing and spitting. “I’m delighted you’re all here,” he said with a straight face. “But this is the time of morning when I tour the estate. I would not want to bore you with construction plans and inspecting animals.”
Thirteen pairs of eyes blinked at once.
“Wittle animals, Yow Gwace?” The very blond, blue-eyed Lady Susan Moore sported a puzzled doll-like expression with her tiny mouth.
“Little, big—I adore them all,” Lady Katherine said with glee.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the traitorous bed-hog, Eddie, slink from his side to Roxanne’s grinning form in the rear.
“Come along, then,” Alex said with resignation. “Mr. Goodsmith and I were about to tour the henhouse.”
Lady Judith Leigh giggled, her bright red corkscrew curls bouncing.
Roxanne turned to Isabelle. “My cousin is very fond of collecting eggs. Did you know that? He says it’s good for the soul if only to remind oneself of the godliness of common chores.”
What in hell?
“That’s funny,” Isabelle said laughing. “I overheard my undercook complain of our hens pecking her to death. I guess southern hens are more docile.”
Candover’s four sisters came forward in unison, their faces so alike yet slightly different in one small aspect or another. Only their dark brown hair was the same shade and the same style—severely parted in the center with loose wings covering their ears and sloping high on top of their heads. Hope looked at John with a kind smile. “My brother would never allow us near the henhouse. I should very much like to learn more.”
“As would I,” insisted Charity, her brown eyes shining.
“Well, I would prefer it more than they would,” Pamela insisted petulantly.
Lord, deliver me from this insanity, Alex thought.
John was already dubiously leading the bevy of colorful ladies toward the protected small fenced area on the sunny lower portion of the island.
Alex attempted to make his way to Roxanne and Isabelle’s sides without any success. And then he looked down to find Christine’s lovely face looking up at him. Thank God for her. She was not only beautiful, and refined, but she knew when to keep silent or speak of sensible things. As a bonus, her sister Lydia never spoke at all. Not one word.
“If you like, Your Grace, I shall find a way for all of us to leave you to your morning tasks. I only joined them in an effort to help you if I could. I realize how burdensome all of this must be for you.”
“How kind you are,” he said, taken aback at her honesty and goodness. “Do your best, but I think, sadly, you are outnumbered.”
She beamed radiantly. “We shall see.”
“I should be greatly in your debt if you succeed.” He employed the smile that frequently caused a lady to do things she should not.
He had forgotten the comforting sounds of a chicken house. Clucks emanated from the coop as they drew close to the square wooden structure complete with a cupola. John cleared the fence and lifted open the pop hole before he scattered a great amount of feed in the yard. It pleased Alex to see how well maintained John kept the area.
A multitude of birds all shapes, sizes, and colors poked through the pop hole, delighted to find a new day, and breakfast. John chuckled and called a few by name.
“Oh, what a pretty cockerel,” murmured Lady Christine Saveron.
“The fawn-speckled one?”
“Yes,” she murmured.
“Why, that’s a Hamburg, if I remember correctly. It’s a hen, actually. See, there are no spurs.” He was shocked that he remembered these facts.
“And the white one, Your Grace?” Christine cooed.
“A Marans.”
“Actually, that is not a Marans,” Roxanne inserted as she sidled up arm-in-arm with Isabelle.
Alex slowly turned his head. “Really? I beg to differ with you. The Marans is a French breed I know very well.”
“Well, that is not a Marans,” Roxanne continued, overconfident.
Isabelle giggled. “Do we really care what breed it is? I only want to know if its eggs are better than the others.”
“Of course, all of the Duke of Kress’s hens lay the most perfect eggs,” declared Christine Saveron.
“Of course,” Roxanne said with a grin. “He orders them by threat of the carving knife.”
“Can we not visit the stable now?” Katherine pouted slightly. “What importance are birds when we have horses to ride?” Her sister’s red corkscrew curls bounced in agreement as she giggled.
“I, for one, would like to know all the specifics of the hens.” Charity’s spectacles glittered in the sunlight.
“Oh, me too,” Faith jumped in along with the other Candover sisters.
Lady Pamela Hopkins appeared bored to tears. Alex could not help but laugh for that lady was only excited when spades, hearts, diamonds, or clubs were in evidence.
Alex tried to regain his sanity. He had never thought he would find himself standing next to thirty-odd hens and almost half as many females at six o’clock in the morning. For the first time in his life, chickens held far more appeal.
“It’s a Sussex,” Roxanne stated with a huge smile.
The hair on the back of his head prickled. “What did you say?”
“I said that hen is a Sussex not a Marans.”
“There is no such bird,” Alex said, trying to sound casual in his remark.
“If you had been raised in Cornwall, you would know that that hen is a Sussex. She will lay over two hundred dark cream-colored eggs a year, and is also a good table bird. She is the most common hen in the area.”
“You dare to question, His Grace?” Lady Christine Saveron asked softly while picking a feather from her gown. “I thought you were as much a stranger to Cornwall as the rest of us, Miss Barclay.”
Roxanne ignored her. “Would you care to wager, cousin?” She tilted her head slyly. Only a small tic on the inner
corner of her left eye gave away her ill-ease.
“I will wager anything you like,” he murmured, “my dearest, darling cousin.”
“All right. If that hen is a Sussex, then you must clean the henhouse while John takes a dish of tea with me.”
“And if I am correct?”
“Then I suppose I shall be cleaning the henhouse instead of you. Must give the appearance of fair play, don’t you think?”
Her smile was just a little too big. He wasn’t sure what she was out to prove, but he’d be damned if there was a chicken named Sussex, unless it was the smug peacock Alex used to consider a friend until the other duke had shown interest where he should not.
Inviting her to dance, indeed.
He knew he was being a bloody nodcock, and he was even more annoyed that she knew just how to get under his feathers, er, skin.
Yes, that interlude by the pool was now etched in his memory. He’d spent hours remembering her slender form and warm kisses. Why, he was dying to get her alone again and—
“Who cares about chickens,” Lady Katherine Leigh moaned.
“It’s very hot today, don’t you think?” Hope turned to her sister, Faith.
“I’m starving,” muttered Pamela Hopkins.
Christine whirled her blond head toward the others. “What a lovely idea, Pamela. Shall we not all return to the Mount for breakfast?”
“Haven’t you forgotten something?” Roxanne spoke to Christine, while keeping her steadfast gaze on Alex.
“Really? I can’t imagine what you mean,” Christine replied politely, yet with the tiniest edge.
Roxanne entered the fenced enclosure and picked up a wire egg basket as she headed toward the henhouse where John had disappeared as soon as the caterwauling had begun. “The eggs.”
“The commoner shall collect them for us,” Christine Saveron, daughter of the Earl of Dalton, replied.
Roxanne paused in mid-step, then straightened her spine and kept walking. Alex had the troubling notion that Roxanne misunderstood and thought Christine was referring to her, not John Goodsmith.