Between the Duke and the Deep Blue Sea

by Sophia Nash

  Her head was so full of pain that she barely noticed the trunk was rising from the ground. She had thought the Cossack alone would carry her to a waiting dog cart at the Mount’s path to Penzance. It took her a few moments to realize that the trunk was being carried by both the footman and Alexander. She knew it not from any words, since they were silent, but the trunk tipped from side to side unevenly.

  She tried to think of anything but the man outside of the confines of her tiny, dark space, which smelled of him. The starch of his shirts, and the unique scent that was his alone invaded her nostrils. She tried not to think at all, but a collage of the many versions of his face invaded her mind, unbidden. His great wide, even smile, framed by dimples, and his warm brown eyes filled with mischief at the best of times, presumption and annoyance at her antics at the worst. The remembrance of the fine texture of his brown hair running through her fingers when they had shared kisses and much more filtered through her torrent of memories, torturing her. She would allow this now—now before they reached Isabelle’s carriage. And then she would compress these thoughts far back into a deep corner of her mind, only to be released for brief periods when she was alone and in Scotland and could torment no one but herself with her sadness.

  She refused to cry, however. There would be no more tears ever again. She had found love, and shared love even for a brief period, which was much more than many people ever had in an entire lifetime. And she had her freedom, something she had never thought to ever have again. She was free of Lawrence, free to start a new productive life.

  The trunk pitched too far forward and she almost fell on her face.

  Chapter 18

  She lost her breath as the trunk was dropped to the ground with a rough curse. They had not gone nearly far enough. Surely, the path to the Mount’s harbor was a little farther at the very least.

  A cacophony of loud voices competed against one another. Roxanne was certain she heard Alexander’s voice, along with Isabelle’s and also three other men’s voices. Thank the Lord she did not hear Lawrence’s distinct nasal voice.

  Blinding sunlight met her eyes a moment later. And with it, a far more bitter future than she could have ever imagined fell into place.

  When she sat up and her eyes focused on the three gentlemen confronting Alexander, her stomach dropped to her toes. They were Lawrence’s three closest allies, Lord Milford, Lord Ramsbothem, and Mr. Crosby.

  “I knew it,” Lord Ramsbothem shouted. “I told you she was behind it all.”

  “What have we here?” Alexander looked at the Cossack. “I thought this was the Duchess of March’s trunk.”

  “Sneaking off like a thief in the night, are you, Roxanne Newton?” Lord Milford continued without regard for Alexander’s words. “You dare to think we would not find you out?”

  “Need I correct you by informing it’s full daylight?” Alexander replied. “And her name, by the by, is Lady Paxton.”

  “And you,” Mr. Crosby dared to point at the duke. “You are her accomplice.”

  Alexander raised his eyebrows. “Her accomplice? In what, pray tell?”

  “Don’t play the innocent with us. We know what you’ve done to Lord Paxton.”

  “What?” Alexander said lazily. “Scaring her husband to bits? He deserved it and more.”

  “So you admit you harrassed Lord Paxton?”

  “Why not?” Alexander said as he crossed his arms over his wide chest.

  The three gentlemen’s faces turned various hues ranging from magenta to purple. Their tight-vested bellies puffed out like three plump roosters.

  “What have you to say, Roxanne Newton Vanderhaven?” Lord Ramsbothem spat out.

  She had always despised this particular gentleman more than the rest of Lawrence’s friends. He always laughed the loudest, and refused to leave long after all of Lawrence’s other cohorts had departed. “I have nothing to say to you, sir.”

  “Well, you might not have to answer to me, Tinner, but you will answer to a magistrate.”

  She started. “Whatever for?”

  Alexander held her back with his arm in front of her. She was prepared for fisticuffs as these awful men had always been unkind.

  “Yes, do tell us why you dare to come to the Mount without invitation,” Alexander’s tone was full of eloquent contempt.

  “One needs no invitation to arrest someone,” Lord Milford said snidely.

  “I fear you have no sense of direction, sir, for the Earl of Paxton resides far north east of Penzance. He’s the man you want.”

  “Actually, the earl lies less than an eighth of a mile from here, face down in a remote patch of sand.”

  Roxanne inhaled. “He’s dead?” Her voice barely worked.

  “And you are mysteriously alive,” Mr. Crosby replied.

  “What does the untimely death of Lord Paxton have to do with Lady Paxton?” the duke retorted.

  “And you,” Mr. Crosby added.

  “Your black beast,” Lord Ramsbothem continued, “was found not forty yards away from Lord Paxton’s body. The stallion was happily feeding at the edge of Farmer Gilbert’s hayfield. We found a small bag containing a root ball of some sort in the saddlebag. It’s common knowledge that Lord Paxton has a penchant for collecting plants.”

  “He’s a damned thief is what he is,” Alexander seethed. “He took the kidney vetch or red something or other after I told him he could not have it.”

  “So you admit he was at the Mount,” one of the lords argued.

  “Of course. How else could he have stolen my plants and my horse?” Alexander shook his head in disgust.

  Roxanne noticed the tension behind his expression as full shock set in. She was unable to believe Lawrence was truly dead. “Well, Lawrence’s transgression against me takes precedence.”

  All five men present, including the Cossack, turned to stare at her.

  “He tried to kill me,” she whispered, desperately attempting to regain a measure of confidence. “Lawrence Vanderhaven saw me fall from the cliff of Kynance Cove and then left me there to die.”

  One of the men snorted. “No one could survive a fall from that cliff.”

  “I only fell part way,” she said defensively. “And Lawrence was with me and said he was going to get rope, but he never returned.”

  “Really?” Mr. Crosby said with sarcasm. “Or were you merely faking your own death in order to lie in wait and murder him before you would then run away and hide like a fox in a den?”

  “You thought you’d planned the perfect murder, Roxanne Newton, didn’t you?” Lord Ramsbothem added. “Although how you managed to use your wiles on the duke to aid you is a mystery.”

  “Then again, don’t forget she used her vulgar trickery to mesmerize Paxton in the beginning. She must be some sort of witch,” muttered Lord Milford.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Roxanne spied Alexander about to spring on Milford. The Cossack inched in front of him.

  “By order of the magistrate in the next county we are arresting both of you for the murder of the Earl of Paxton,” Ramsbothem said with a small smile he couldn’t hide.

  “How ridiculous,” she replied. “Surely you are joking. Clearly, Lawrence took His Grace’s horse without leave, mind you, and then suffered the unfortunate consequence of a bad fall. There is no evidence of murder.”

  Ramsbothem’s eyes narrowed. “You shall have to do a better job at lying, my dear. The only real question is which one of you shot him while he was on the brute.”

  Lord Milford continued. “No one is above the laws of our land.”

  Alexander turned to her, his enigmatic eyes blank, as if this was an epic comedy of errors instead of a nightmare come to life. “Did I not tell you the same thing? And you didn’t believe me.”

  “Now is not the time to—” Roxanne was interrupted by Alex.

  “Now is precisely the time.”

  “To do what?” Milford asked with a sneer.

  “To tell the three of you that y
ou are trespassing on my property.”

  “We have the right to go anywhere we so choose in the name of justice,” Milford retorted. “And—”

  Alexander raised his voice a notch. “Unless you have a proper writ from the House of Lords demanding our presence, my footman and I shall kindly escort you from the Mount. And by the by, I do believe you are standing on my Liver Vetch.”

  “Kidney,” Roxanne whispered.

  “Kidney, liver—whatever,” Alexander replied waving his hand in the manner of a monarch. “It’s all valuable.”

  The three men eyed each other uneasily.

  “If you think . . .” Mr. Crosby stalled.

  Milford took up the cause. “If you think you are above—”

  “Repetition breeds reiteration. Look,” Alexander said in a tone one would use with a simpleton, “I am above you. Remember? It’s mister, esquire, knight, baronet, baron, viscount, earl, marquis, duke, prince, and king. In that order. I thought you would know that at the very least, Milfool.”

  “Milford,” the lord seethed.

  “As such,” Alex continued full of condescension, “we are under no obligation to answer to anyone except His Majesty or the House of Lords.”

  Ramsbothem narrowed his pig eyes. “It makes little difference whether we arrest Roxanne Newton and you today or tomorrow, or even in a week’s time, Kress. Suffice it to say, until then, we will have all of Cornwall’s eyes and ears focused on the Mount. And since you are too hen-hearted to come along today to face the allegations along with the tin whore, then we shall—”

  Roxanne stepped forward at the same moment Alex pulled her behind him with lightning speed and then slammed his fist into the fleshy cheek of Ramsbothem. Alex’s other fist struck the fat lord’s stomach with such force it raised the man off his feet.

  Roxanne grabbed one of Alexander’s arms with all her strength and tried to pull him back, all the while asking the Cossack for help.

  “No,” the footman grunted with his odd accent.

  She felt as though she was attempting to control a three-ton bull. Roxanne let go when she realized he did not intend to do further damage. His focus was so great, he probably had no idea that she was even trying to hold him back.

  Crosby and Milford helped Ramsbothem, who was gasping, to his feet.

  Alexander’s expression was now the bored one she knew so well.

  “I do hope you will spare us the usual clichés while you take your leave,” Alexander said, readjusting his coat sleeve with the arrogance of the duke he was.

  But the three gentlemen had not the self-control to do as they were bid. And Alex had not the tolerance to stay and listen as they promised retribution they were ill suited to mete out.

  Roxanne looked at Alexander’s even, strained profile and silently placed her arm on his when he turned to offer his to her. The Cossack followed behind them with the empty trunk as they ascended the long path with silence belying the flurry of words coursing through at least two of the three minds.

  It would be a long time before they would have the luxury of silence again.

  “It’s never too early to panic.” Isabelle’s eyes bespoke twice the worry her words suggested.

  From a nearby window seat, Alex watched Roxanne pace the carpet in the middle of the huge stone hall, where he had ordered a fire lit to chase away the first coolness of a summer evening.

  “And I say, there is nothing to gain by worrying,” Mary insisted. She was even more gray about the gills than Isabelle.

  “While I appreciate everyone’s concern,” Roxanne said, halting in front of the fire and stretching out her palms to warm them, “I want none of it. And it’s not Alexander they want. It’s me, I assure you.”

  Alex heard Mémé make an inelegant sound for the first time ever. “And you think to deprive us of besting those ignorant, unsophisticated rustics?”

  Alex watched a tiny smile creep onto Roxanne’s lovely face, and it warmed his heart. He hated to see her in any way anxious.

  “Alexandre,” Mémé’s voice held a particularly plaintive quality, something he had not heard in many years. “What say you to all this?”

  “I should like to hear from the archbishop,” he said, not moving from his cold, hard seat.

  The plump, little man appeared almost as ill as the morning after Candover’s botched-up affair. “I cannot speak for His Highness. We must wait for his answer to the express I just sent.”

  “If it were me,” Mary said quietly, “I should make a run for it. The both of you together.”

  “That’s a terrible idea. It would appear as if they were guilty,” Isabelle insisted. “Don’t you agree, Alexander?”

  “The only one guilty here, aside from Paxton, Devil take his soul, is my horse. If Bacchus had only left the scene of the crime,” he said with as much dark humor as he could muster. The frown had returned to her face.

  Roxanne turned to him. “I am going to them tomorrow. Your footman may escort me. There’s nothing to be gained by waiting. It only adds to the appearance of guilt. I shall dash off a note this eve to Mr. Jones, who will help me face the outrageous charges. They have no evidence I did this. I don’t even know how to shoot a pistol. I only wish I could guess who did it.”

  “Who do you think could be behind it?” Isabelle asked anxiously.

  Alex could see she didn’t want to say. He could guess she was worried it might very well have been Dickie Jones. He did threaten to do harm.

  “It could be any number of people,” she stated. “I heard the servants whispering more than once that a group of smugglers was tired of Lawrence’s stranglehold on all of them. And then there was the large number of local poor and dispirited creatures who earned harsh punishment each time they were brought before Lawrence on small charges, like poaching one rabbit when they were clearly starving.”

  “One can only imagine what he would have done if they had been caught eating one of his apples,” Mary said with disgust.

  He refused to dignify any of this with a comment. And there was not a single thing any of them could do tonight to answer the question. He would have to do it all himself. But his primary concern from now till doomsday was very simple. He could not let Roxanne out of his sight for a moment. And he’d be damned before he’d let her go to those lesser Cornish nobles. She was an innocent and knew not how savage men could become when the promise of violence stirred awake the dormant primal beast.

  Everyone turned to him. He yawned. “The prawns were a bit off tonight, don’t you think, Mémé?”

  They all looked at him incredulously.

  “I can’t imagine why you would say that, cheri,” Mémé retorted. “They were perfection. And Monsieur le Pique’s sauce moutarde?” She kissed the tips of her pinched fingers. “Simplement exquise.”

  Roxanne eyed first Mémé before turning to him. She sighed and shook her head. “I shall bid you all good night, then. And thank you again for your concern. But really, this is the most ridiculous allegation and I refuse to be cowed by it. Everything will be brought to light in the name of justice. I am only sorry any of you might become involved.” She glanced at him. “I won’t bore you with another apology. I fear there is nothing more I can say to—”

  Isabelle rushed to grasp her hands. “Hush. Don’t you dare turn away. You are one of us and we help our own.”

  “Thank you,” Roxanne murmured, squeezing the duchess’s hands.

  “I think that’s enough wretched theatrics for one day, don’t you agree, Mary? My stomach can only take so much sauce moutarde and the other. I’m for bed with a nice warm bottle of Armagnac. I suggest everyone do the same.”

  “Perfect idea, Alexander,” Roxanne said with false brightness. “Everything will appear so much worse in the morning.”

  “My thoughts precisely,” he murmured, glad to see she had not completely lost her humor. They would both need it to see them through to the gross end. And that was about as much optimism as he could muster for a man
who had taken a vow to change his point of view of the world.

  Alex finally acknowledged to himself that he had known what he would do the moment he had learned Paxton was dead. Somewhere deep inside the muscle of his brain, he had always known his final course no matter what. He feared he had even probably known the afternoon he had pulled the gray and dusty statue-come-to-life form of Roxanne Newton Vanderhaven past the lip of Kynance Cove cliff.

  And he would not change his decision. No, to be true to himself, it was only fair to admit it was not a decision. It was a godforsaken, stupid, ill-conceived, not a chance in a million plan. He would only need time, something he feared he had little of, to see it through.

  But to achieve it, or at least to attempt to achieve part of it without her interference, he would put Roxanne in Isabelle’s connecting apartments, along with Mémé for good measure, bar the windows, and place the Cossack between the two chambers’ doors.

  Then he plunked a well-padded leather chair from his study at the end of the long hallway where Isabelle’s chamber was located. And he sat his derrière down to wait out the night. He was not taking any chances. He knew her far too well now.

  Two hours passed with only the interruption of the grandfather clock two floors below clanging the hours. The Armagnac served to clear his mind instead of calm it. He used the time wisely, carefully reexamining his past, the present, and what he wanted for the future. He was determined to live a good life. A life of duty, even if everything was lost to ill chance. It was the only way he could die in peace in the end, whenever that was. There would be no more living on the sidelines of life, watching it unfold without attempting to right a wrong. His life might be in complete tatters at this moment, yes; he might very well face murder charges, and be unable to save himself, or worse, Roxanne. And he would be so out of favor with the Prince Regent now, that he could very well lose everything.

  But it was amazing to him that if he concentrated solely on doing his duty to the best of his ability, focused only on protecting others—protecting her—to right a wrong, then he could let everything else fall away. He would—