Between the Duke and the Deep Blue Sea

by Sophia Nash

  “Mr. Jones,” Roxanne interrupted, “I will be leaving Cornwall along with the Duchess of March. There must be no more talk of murder. I will not see you hung or languish in a prison because of my miserable rat of a husband.”

  “Well, then.” Mr. Jones reached into a drawer of his desk and removed a metal box. Inserting a key and extracting a substantial amount of coin, he placed it in her palm. “Once you settle across the border you must send me your direction and I shall forward you a bank draft each quarter.”

  “I don’t know what to say, Mr. Jones, except, thank you. And I shall endeavor to repay you when I’m able.”

  “I should warn you that she owes me first,” Alexander said dryly. “She probably owes everyone in town.”

  Chapter 17

  In the end it took two additional days than had originally been planned for the ladies’ departure. Isabelle blamed it on the intricacies of folding her numerous gowns into a staggering number of trunks.

  “You have not the slightest idea how long it takes to place pieces of tissue between the sleeves of each gown to maintain the integrity of the fine silk, Alex.”

  “Oh, I know precisely how long it takes to send a female packing,” he muttered. “No longer than a half hour, at most.”

  “You know, Alex,” Isabelle continued with a sniff, “you used to be the most good-humored gentleman. I can’t imagine what has caused this unpleasant shift in temperament.”

  Roxanne hovered, and remained silent.

  Mary watched all with a knowing smile.

  The archbishop remained conveniently repentant and invisible in the chapel, or in the replenished wine cellar, or possibly even in his apartments. No one was certain.

  And Mémé ate every morsel the chef so lovingly prepared for her, and pretended to read the three London newspapers she had arranged to be delivered via the Mail Coach. Or perhaps she actually was reading them. Sometimes one could catch the smallest of smiles quivering on her lips when the scandal sheet was exposed.

  Alex retired to his study to reread an express from the Prince Regent, who was furious. First and foremost His Majesty called him every grievous word in the dictionary for not having settled on a fiancée. He boldly reminded Alex of the vast sum of money that would have to be repaid to the royal treasury with interest. The note would become due within the next two weeks, unless, of course, a bride was put forth on the sacrificial altar of marriage.

  Candover had obviously taken great delight in painting as black a portrait as possible when he had returned to Carleton House at breakneck pace. Yes, he had even had the audacity to speak of Roxanne, for the future king added a postscript—“And you shall cast aside any idea regarding a questionable, poverty-stricken relation who Candover refuses to name.” Alex had an unholy desire to put on a Hussar uniform and slay both Candover and Prinny with a French blade.

  Alex rubbed the ache between his neck and shoulders. Well, Mrs. Plan of Planningville had her ducks all in a row, while he, who had so diligently, yet unconsciously, balanced a delicate house of cards all in a goddamned scheme for the first time in his life was watching it crumble to dust. And the worst part was that he had no sodding idea why he had attempted it when he had sworn never to attempt to twist fate ever again. This after he had told her his motto—Life Never Goes According to Any Plan—the day he met her.

  Impending disaster was upon them all for there was the telltale frisson of tension in the air. And if Isabelle didn’t ready her trunks within the next hour, Alex would have every servant on the Mount cart her half-packed valises to Penzance to be loaded onto her carriages. He had no idea how they would secret Roxanne to the conveyance, for surely the Earl of Paxton had arranged a watch on everyone coming from and going to the Mount. The man might be a fool, but he was a terrified fool now. The earl had not even responded to Alex’s note putting off their journey to London for one week.

  During the last month, Alex had periodically sent the Cossack footman out and about to learn everything he could about Paxton. The footman had proved to be as good at sleuthing as he was at remaining silent and using his superior strength at a moment’s notice. The Cossack had learned that Roxanne and Paxton had not lied when they’d each independently suggested the earl had ties to every lord and man of importance within a seventy-five-mile radius of Cornwall. Apparently, gentlemen especially valued the earl for his superior magisterial judgments against poachers and people of the lesser classes. But Paxton was even more prized for his excellent connections to every smuggler and their cache of ill-gotten goods. There was not a man of worth who would not stand for Paxton as a character witness. It was enough to make Alex want to take a tour of the armory himself. He pushed back his chair from the desk and—

  A knock on his door sounded. “Come.”

  John Goodsmith, his fine dark-chestnut hair carefully combed and parted, entered, wearing the new clothes Alex had arranged for him. His shoes squeaked.

  “Pardon me, sir.”

  “Yes, John?” Alex sat back down. “What have you there?”

  The young man came forward and carefully laid a new ledger in front of Alex. “I made notes of the animals purchased, and the additional grain and feed requirements. The reconstruction costs are excellent—below the initial estimate, you will see.”

  Alex studied the neat handwriting. John had been well educated by the last and only monk the former duke had allowed to continue on the Mount during his lifetime. “And the books we discussed acquiring?”

  “All part of the plan, sir.”

  “John?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Please don’t ever use that word in my presence again, all right?”

  John looked at him quizzically. “Which one?”

  “Dukes are allowed their quirks, and the word plan is mine. We may decide on clever endeavors, or concoct ideas, but that is all. We are not to count on the future.”

  John scratched his head. “But how are we to better the Mount and ourselves without plans? Pardon me for being outspoken, sir.”

  “No, you are right to ask and I don’t wish to dim your optimism. You have much of your life ahead of you to accomplish that,” he said kindly but with his signature dry wit.

  “My father always said you can’t count on things going your way, but you must dream. For if we have no dreams then we have no purpose, do we?”

  Alex felt a rush of pain invade his gut.

  “If I may be so bold, sir, what is your dream?”

  “No, not mine,” Alex said gently. “But I should like to hear yours.”

  “You have already helped fulfill part of my dream, that of bettering myself. But I also dream of this castle restored the way it once was. The way it was when my grandfather was young. He and Father spoke of it often. And I dream of good people inhabiting it always, like you, sir, and the Comtesse de Chatelier, and Miss Barclay. And I hope to see it filled with happiness for as long as I live. All we can really do is try to leave this earth in a better fashion than we found it. That is what I dream.”

  “That’s all?” Alex spoke quietly.

  “Well, I dream of love, of course, doesn’t everyone?”

  “But you are only seven and ten.”

  “Love comes when it chooses. You don’t get to say when and you don’t really get to say who. I was lucky to have the love of my father, my grandfather, and Father Fielding. I hope to give and receive more if I’m allowed the chance. I guess the only choice you have is whether to say yes or no when it knocks on your heart.”

  “Who told you this?” Alex’s voice was hoarse even to his own ears.

  “I learned it from my father.”

  “And your mother?”

  “I didn’t know her, sir. Father said she died when I was born.”

  “I see,” Alex inhaled deeply. “Well, you were, indeed, lucky to have such a wise father. My father had similar ideas.” He did not add that he now felt ashamed for probably the first time in his life. This young man, who possessed so li
ttle, had lost his only relation in the world at the tender age of twelve, if Alex had the right of it. But John had had a great enough heart to retain his optimism, while Alex had lost his parents at the ripe age of fifteen and then he had immediately thrown optimism on its ear. Despite having Mémé and his brother, he had taken the easier pessimistic path. “John, I should warn you I am a cynic and am not to be taken seriously. I see life as a farce that rarely works in one’s favor.”

  John smiled. “But Father Fielding taught me that the Greek cynics were virtuous and masters at self-control. Their only flaw, according to him, was that they were fiercely independent and thought they could do everything on their own.”

  “Fielding taught you well, but that last part was not a flaw.”

  “Perhaps not, but I prefer the joy of being surrounded by others. I am so grateful to you, sir, for coming here and bringing the Mount to life again. And for allowing me the privilege of serving you.”

  Alex hated the ball obstructing his throat. “Go along, then, John. You are doing an excellent job. Your talents were wasted on the chickens,” he added dryly.

  “I love every aspect of the Mount, sir,” John said with a smile so wide his dimples were revealed.

  Alex shuffled the papers in front of him. “Of course you do. Now, please inform the architect that I should like to go forward with the reconstruction of the dairy.”

  The young man bowed and appeared very well pleased by the news.

  Alex opened his pocket watch and glanced at the time. Isabelle had less than a quarter hour before he would boot the pretty, young duchess out with the suddenly quiet Mrs. Vanderhaven. He would then allow himself only five minutes after they departed before he would pack away his Greek cynic’s view and attempt with all sincerity to make Lady Mary Haverty the happiest bride in Christendom.

  Mary Haverty, he did not know, would have a far better idea, since a heroine-in-waiting always has a better plan.

  Roxanne Vanderhaven, née Newton, but with a host of aliases, the newest being Harriet Jones, calmly stood by the shadowed rear door of the Mount. She’d said her goodbyes to the servants, and to Mary, who had looked like a cat who had got into the cream in the larder. Mémé had not been nearly as collected when Roxanne had found her in the music room playing a Chopin concerto on the pianoforte. Her thin, proud frame swayed as the notes flew from her nimble fingers. Edward sat on a plump feather cushion Mémé had had made for him.

  The comtesse stopped suddenly when Roxanne entered on tiptoe. “Yes?”

  “I’ve come to take my leave, ma’am.” Roxanne had been unable to use the grand lady’s informal moniker as she owed her a deference she could no longer ignore.

  “Mémé, please,” Alex’s great-aunt insisted, her back arched.

  “I must be allowed to thank you for everything you’ve done for me,” Roxanne said as she went to stand beside the pianoforte.

  Mémé stared straight ahead, beyond the music on the stand. She reached into her pocket and extracted something. “Come here, my child.”

  Roxanne drew close and placed her hand in Mémé’s outstretched palm. She felt a cool object slip onto her finger. An extraordinary ring with tiny diamonds scattered in an intricate confection of spun gold rendered Roxanne nearly speechless. She had never seen anything like it.

  “Why would you—” Roxanne began.

  “Hush. Every lady requires at least one piece of jewelry. And I have no need of this.”

  “But—”

  “It was given to me by a suitor I eventually spurned in favor of another with better taste.”

  Mémé was being every bit as absurd as her great-nephew.

  “My dear, I wish for you to have something to remember me, just as I would request something of you of far greater value.”

  “And that would be?” Roxanne’s heart sank.

  “Edward.”

  “My dog? But Eddie is all I—”

  “I know,” Mémé interrupted. “But I must face facts. He is most likely the only male who will occupy my bed for the rest of my life, whereas you . . . Well, I have great hopes for you, cherie.”

  Roxanne felt ill. She could not part with her dog. He was all she had left.

  “Your husband will guess you have left if Edward disappears,” Mémé continued. “And he is far too unusual-looking and would be noted by anyone who sees him if Paxton searches for you. You must leave him here and I shall take excellent care of him. Cook dotes on him. And each time the earl dares to show his face, I shall set Edward on him to take un gros morceau—a, ummm, fat bite—from his ankle.”

  Roxanne swallowed. She crossed to Eddie’s side to pet him. Her adorable dog cocked his head and then rolled onto his back for a tummy scratch and she complied. For the first time, Roxanne noticed her dog would not keep Mémé out of his sight. When she stopped scratching, Eddie jumped up, trotted to Mémé, and jumped into her lap. “I think,” Roxanne said with a small hitch in her voice, “he’s telling me what he wants.”

  “And when Alexandre marries, Edward and I shall pay a long visit to Isabelle. I hope you will be there, too. We shall make it an annual affair.”

  “Please call him Eddie.”

  “I assume you know that Edward means ‘guardian of prosperity’ in Latin.” Mémé paused to allow Roxanne to regain a measure of composure. “And after my visit with Isabelle, I hope to travel with you to Scotland to help you settle there if you still insist, Roxanne.”

  “I should like it above all things. But I must warn you that my living quarters will not be what you are used to.”

  “Ah, but cherie, they will serve as an important reminder of my own new start when I arrived on this wretched island. Your residence will seem palatial in comparison, I assure you.”

  They both laughed. The younger a little less than the older.

  “It’s a lovely idea,” Roxanne murmured, twisting the ring on her finger, “but really I cannot accept—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s a token of gratitude, Roxanne. And if you cannot fathom for what, I shall not tell you. And no, it is not for Eddie. Now go. And leave by way of the servants’ entrance. Arrangements have been made for your departure.”

  Roxanne raised Mémé’s hand to her lips and kissed it before bringing the older lady’s hand to her cheek. “Thank you, Mémé. If I could have chosen a great—”

  “You mean a mother.”

  “Or a sister.” Roxanne smiled. “It would have been you.”

  “Of course, it would have been me.” Mémé withdrew her hands and shooed her away. “Off with you now. I must continue my practice. And this is not a goodbye, for I shall see you again very soon.”

  Eddie snuggled deeper into the older woman’s lap. He was a born lap dog, it appeared, and not the rabbit hunter Roxanne had raised from a pup. He had changed, just like she.

  Roxanne looked at Mémé’s profile for a long moment and then crossed the expanse of the room. As she walked through the doorway, she did not see the tear on the other lady’s cheek.

  She made her way to the appointed exit with a feeling of calm entering her mind. She had nothing left of her old life now. And with the exception of leaving behind her beloved dog, she was at peace. Almost everything she had wished to accomplish since that awful day on Kynance Cliff had transpired. And it was all due to Alexander Barclay.

  The Cossack footman appeared at her side and silently opened the servants’ door. An enormous trunk lay on the ground. He motioned for her to enter it. Roxanne realized she had never heard the faintly exotic-looking man speak.

  “You want me to get in there?”

  He grunted.

  “But I will suffocate.”

  A familiar voice floated over her shoulder. “It’s a wonderful, calming feeling.” It was only fitting that he would sneak up on her one last time for their final goodbye.

  She forced a smile to her lips as she turned. “I am not afraid.”

  “I know. That’s what worries me.”

&n
bsp; “I thought you didn’t ever worry about anything.”

  “Times have changed. I’ve learned one must change too or be frozen in time.”

  “Very impressive,” she replied.

  “I’m capable of adapting,” he said, a smile forming on his handsome face. One dimple even made a rare appearance.

  She cast her gaze from his face. “I’m about to reveal something, Alex.”

  “Not another secret? I’m not sure I can stand another.”

  She tried very hard to maintain her smile. She was proud of her success. “I’m not very good at saying goodbye.”

  “Surely you’re better than Paxton at the very least.”

  She was grateful that he was trying so hard to make it easy for her by keeping it lighthearted. “Yes, there is that at least.”

  “Well, then. We shall not draw this out.”

  “Thank you, Alexander.”

  He held up a hand to stop her.

  “No, don’t brush it off.”

  “Actually, I don’t think I shall. I think I’ve earned it.”

  She managed a chuckle. “Allow me to wish you every happiness, and I shall endeavor to assure it by never interfering in your life again.”

  His dimple disappeared.

  “But I shall write a letter to your great-aunt to tell her of my safe arrival.”

  “I shall require your directions so any news of your husband can be sent to you.”

  She looked at his boots. “You must inform Isabelle who will write to me.”

  “So you will not give me your directions?”

  She stepped into the trunk. “Are there any holes for air in this coffin?”

  “It depends on your answer,” Alexander replied with a forced smile. His hands were clenched at his sides.

  “Who needs air, when I shall have the comfort of darkness?” She folded herself into the trunk, and nodded to the hulking footman who reappeared to help close it. Thank God, the Cossack shut it quickly.

  She heard Alexander murmur something, but could not make out a single word.

  “Goodbye . . .” she whispered.