by Sophia Nash
“Sir,” Alex insisted to the magistrate, “I would request a brief recess—”
His words were lost to a pounding at the heavy wooden doors at the opposite end of the chamber.
The entire proceedings had become slightly out of focus. Roxanne feared she might, for the first time in her life, swoon, which was really the most boring, clichéd thing to do. She tried mightily to stop the dark weight. It was too stifling hot, yet she felt colder than death.
And there was a great hammering behind her. As she turned in her seat like everyone else, the dark rim of her vision closed and she was suddenly lighter than air. Floating, floating . . . far, far away . . . so happy to leave . . . only the landing jarred her more than expected.
She was so lethargic. Why wouldn’t they just leave her to sleep? Someone was talking too loudly and jostling her. She tried to tell them to leave her alone but her mouth refused to work. She drifted back toward bliss until a terrible acrid scent invaded her senses. Her wits returned in a painful explosive rush and she shoved aside the hand near her nose. Many arms moved her to a seated position before she was ready.
“Give her a minute,” Alex’s gravelly voice insisted.
At least it was much quieter here than where she had been.
She tried desperately to clear the fog in her head as her eyes regained focus. She looked about her. They were in a different, smaller chamber. Alex was beside her and Candover had mysteriously appeared and was standing next to a very fat man wearing the most ostentatious fashionable clothing, and an enormous, ornate royal collier necklace. She closed her eyes. Lord above, it was the Prince Regent.
“Don’t faint again,” Alex said, his deep voice quiet with concern.
She snapped her eyes open wide.
“Your Majesty,” Alexander began, “may I present Roxanne Vanderhaven, the Countess of Paxton?”
“No, you may not,” His Majesty replied haughtily. “You also may not kiss my ring, nor say another word, Kress. You will be at the lowest level of disgrace, facing expulsion from England, if the crowds outside Carlton House catch a whiff of the goings on here.”
Roxanne sat as still as a statue before the Prince Regent.
“Now, then, Kress,” His Majesty continued stiffly. “I understand from our dear friend, Candover, that far from staying the course and following my imperatives, you have done nothing but buy an inordinate amount of expensive quarry stone to rebuild an unimportant tower, purchased flocks of exotic chickens, and placed an order for a great herd of dairy cows. Did I or did I not demand you to fortify the canon emplacements and secure a bride? Evidence of a new duchess in breeding would have been the coup that would have softened my heart, Kress. Instead I find you championing this, this lady you dare to introduce to me without even a by your leave. A lady who might very well have killed her husband. A lady who was hiding at St. Michael’s Mount, with your knowledge?”
Out of the corner of her vision, Roxanne could see Alex open his mouth and then change his mind and close it.
“Finally,” His Majesty said. “So glad to see you’ve learned how to quell your defiant nature, Kress.”
Candover mumbled something.
“Speak up.” The Prince Regent adjusted the long gray wig he wore and scratched his belly. His fat fingers were covered in rings with jewels of every color and shape.
“To be fair, Your Majesty, he did try to select a bride,” Candover said stiffly.
Roxanne watched Alex’s eyes widen.
“But I refused his request for one of my sisters,” Candover lied convincingly. “And all the other ladies were unacceptable. Even I would not have been able to stomach them, Your Majesty.”
It was a first. The Duke of Candover thawed? Unheard of. Even the Prince Regent was without words.
His Majesty gazed at the grand duke for a long time before switching his gaze to Kress, and finally to her. He pursed his fleshy lips, then closed his eyes and shook his royal head. “I cannot allow it. You know not how bad it goes in Town. I cannot allow you to marry an accused murderer, Kress. You must take on a lady from the original list.”
Kress bowed his head.
A long silence reigned.
“Look, Kress,” His Majesty continued, “as soon as you agree to a bride, I shall arrange for this lady to be released. I understand she seeks residence in Scotland. This will be secured. And none of this audacious scandal shall be known in London if we quash it right now. I shall have a word with the magistrate and a promise of something for all who attended. They can be bought, without question. And you may remove to London, where we all know your heart resides.”
She wanted to speak. To tell them that she would see to her own welfare, but she knew enough to say not a word.
Alex had a different idea.
“Lady Christine Saveron,” he said quietly.
Roxanne squeezed shut her eyes in horror. Lord God, he had chosen the worst of the lot as a sign to her. So she would know his true sensibilities.
The Prince Regent preened. “I knew you would see reason, Kress. In fact, this proves you are loyal to me, and I shall herewith consider all those odd rumors about your fidelity during the early war years completely false. Indeed, libelous. You have my word on it.”
She would not let Alex do it. “No,” she whispered. “No,” Roxanne said firmly. “No!” she shouted and jumped from her chair.
Candover started forward. Alex instantly flew behind her and restrained her arms.
“Hush,” he whispered.
“No, I will not hush,” she said loudly. “I have always followed the rules generations of lords have chosen to set. I have broken no laws. My husband tried to kill me. If His Majesty believes otherwise, then I shall accept the justice the magistrate orders. But I will not go quietly into the night—to Scotland. I will take gaol or worse. I will tell the truth, and accept my fate. And . . . and . . . and . . . “ The audacity of her outburst silenced her finally.
“No. Pray continue, Lady Paxton,” His Majesty said amused.
“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty, but it is not right to allow the Duke of Kress to marry Lady Christine Saveron. They would not suit.”
“I see. And who would you choose for him?”
“Someone worthy of him. He should not be used as a scapegoat or tie himself to a woman he does not like.”
The Prince Regent’s jaw dropped and his head tilted back in his shock. His wig slid off, revealing his regal half-shaved head. About a quarter of an inch of salt-and-pepper-colored stubble graced one side and shoulder-length gray hair fell from the other.
How she managed to make not a sound was a miracle. She turned to glance at Alex, who was as slack-jawed as the Duke of Candover, not due to the future monarch’s bizarre coiffure but at her audacity to speak to His Majesty with such unreserved impudence.
For a long moment, Roxanne held tight to hope before . . . it was lost when the Prince Regent regained the use of his tongue and the lashing began.
Alex finally understood where true happiness could be found. It was not a place, and it was not a person. It was devotion to a cause greater than oneself. In his particular case it was held in his desire to save this vibrant, brave woman who would not play by the rules but would accept the consequences, all in the name of truth.
When the royal three and common one returned to the main chamber, the magistrate was in the midst of pounding his gavel so hard, Alex was certain it would splinter.
Lord Ramsbothem, Lord Milford, and Mr. Crosby stood, facing the magistrate.
“So be it,” the old magistrate insisted in his booming voice. “I have reviewed the evidence and, again, let it be known that Roxanne Vanderhaven, nee Newton, has been found guilty of conspiring to murder her husband. There is no evidence to convict His Grace, the Duke of Kress, of course, except for perhaps the minor offense of withholding the animal known as Edward von . . . hmmm, the name escapes me. However—”
“Edward von Dogged,” Alex said as he strode forward with
Candover. Roxanne remained behind the Prince Regent as she had been told to do. Her moment of daring had faded with the prince’s ultimate decision.
Alex stopped in front of the magistrate. Candover did not halt. Instead, the premier duke stepped around Alex and stopped within inches of His Honor.
Alex could not hear what Candover said, but the magistrate did not take kindly to it. He half stood and peered around Candover, and pointed toward the Prince Regent. “Let it be known before all and sundry present that I cannot be swayed or bought by our monarchy. And I daresay, Your Highness”—the magistrate took on an ugly sneering tone—“will find few if any supporters here, given the well-known debauchery of the Crown. I will not—”
A great rustling in front caused the magistrate to stop mid-sentence. Alex watched Roxanne step beside the Prince Regent to see better.
Young John Goodsmith had come forward to the middle of the chamber. “Excuse me, sir, but I have something to say.”
The magistrate’s bleary eyes widened. “Bailiff. I want that man removed from—”
“I did it,” John said loudly enough for all to hear. “I killed Lord Paxton. I found a pistol—”
“He lie. I kilt the flower-loving bastard.” The Cossack was crunching a lot of observers’ feet as he tromped past the seated people down the pew.
The magistrate lifted his gavel to pound it again, but Candover stepped forward and grabbed it before it could be lowered. The duke turned to the crowd, who immediately quieted. “By my order,” Candover pronounced, “the chamber shall hear any and all comments before an official sentence is rendered.”
“Well!” the magistrate huffed. “I will not toler—”
Mr. Jones stood up. “They are both incorrect. I killed Lawrence bloody Vanderhaven, because Roxanne Newton’s father could not. If you are going to—”
“Non. I will not have any more of you kind people of Cornwall—how would you say?—play roulette for me?” Mémé said, jumping to her feet. “I did it. I took my little French pistole, and took careful aim and—”
“Don’t listen to her, everyone,” Alex ground out. “She is blind, for Christsakes.”
Mémé lifted her shoulders. “Beh, alors . . . If they can say it, why cannot I? Pfffft.” Mémé’s Gallic exhale drew a few giggles as she regained her seat and Isabelle rose.
Candover spoke before she could open her mouth. “The Duchess of March absolutely did not do anything. Isabelle, sit down.”
“You cannot speak to me like that, James. I know when to admit a wrong. I killed Latimer Vanderholden.”
“Lawrence Vanderhaven,” Candover said dryly.
“Right. Whatever his name was. He deserved it.” Isabelle’s lovely pink gown poufed out as she whirled to sit down.
And then, the oddest thing happened. A huge number of observers in the chamber slowly stood up. The fact that they wore traditional, simple miner garb was not obvious to any except those of the trade. “I dids it,” shouted one. “No, I done it,” yelled another. “No, ’twas I,” shouted a third. “Me sister did it,” brought a wave of laughter that grew and grew until Candover himself stood behind the seated magistrate, and hammered the gavel to restore order.
“Well, sir, I do believe this proves that the accusations against Roxanne Newton Vanderhaven are unfounded.”
“No, it only means that justice has not been met,” the magistrate whined. “And it is the fault of the one person truly above me for the time being who refuses to—”
“My dear sir,” Candover drawled. “If you are so against our sovereign state, which is treason by the by, I’m certain you would agree to a free and democratic vote. All those in favor of freeing Lady Paxton, please say aye.”
A chorus of “ayes” echoed from the walls of the large room.
“All those in favor of continuing this baseless drama,” Candover called out with disgust.
Four voices rang out, “Aye!” (If one cannot guess who those four be, then careful attention has not been paid.)
“So be it. Please join His Majesty in removing all charges against Roxanne Vanderhaven. She may now return to Paxton Hall. Or Scotland. Or wherever she chooses, including the dower house at Paxton Hall.”
Roxanne started. Return to the estate? Why, she never wanted to set foot on Paxton property ever again. Well, perhaps just one last time, if only to collect her gowns. Mémé’s were lovely, but the necklines were very risqué. Her thoughts were jumping hither and yon, unable to find a rational train of thought in her shock. A warmth spread from her shoulders down to her toes.
Oh . . . the mining community did still like her—accept her—despite her rude removal from them upon her marriage. Perhaps not all of them, judging by the number of people still sitting. But she recognized all the families who had worked for her father. They had stood by her. She would never let them down again.
Chapter 21
The return to the Mount was accomplished at sixes and sevens. Cheers broke out from time to time and the conviviality brought forth spirits and the spirits brought forth song and the songs gave the inhabitants of the carriages and the men on horseback a great sensibility of hope and justice well served.
Especially Alex Barclay, the ninth Duke of Kress, who was still grinding his teeth at the overwhelming bustle of people who had managed to keep him from entering a carriage with Roxanne. He had been able to see her only in the distance, handed into the simple yet large carriage of Mr. Jones.
He mumbled a choice French curse and removed his hat to shove the rim between the leather straps on the ceiling of his carriage. Alex felt the bulge under his vest and removed the documents Candover had transferred to him while in the chamber with the Prince Regent. Mémé leaned forward to pat his knee. Isabelle did the same to his other knee, only harder. “Alex?”
He turned his focus to the petite, lovely duchess, and wondered how he could contrive to force Candover to give over and do right by her despite their huge gap in age. “Isabelle, cherie, you know I adore you, don’t you?” Kress stated.
“Of course. It’s not every day a duchess stands by her friend, even risking death for her and for him. Although, I must say, I was more worried when we were at that awful mine. You are going to somehow manage to get her to stop doing things like that, right, Alex?”
He stared at her. “We are not having this conversation.”
“All right,” Isabelle murmured. “Mémé and I will have it, then.” She looked at the older lady in question. “Don’t you think they make an adorable couple, Mémé?”
Alex could barely hear the two ladies banter. He had unfolded the documents and began to scan them. Mon Dieu. Mon Dieu. Mon Dieu.
Mémé clapped her hands together again. “Oh, absolument. As lovely as you and le duc Candover, ma petite chou.”
Isabelle giggled and kissed the older lady on her cheek. “One day someone will have to explain to me why the French find cauliflower an endearing pet name.”
Kress knocked loudly on the carriage’s roof. It came to a bone-jarring halt and Alex popped open the door to leap out, narrowly missing an oncoming cabriolet. He stood in the middle of the wide lane as soon as he spotted Mr. Jones’s vehicle, which slowed.
Alex quickly opened the door of the boxy vehicle and jumped inside, where Roxanne sat across from Mr. Jones. The carriage pulled forward again.
“Well, well,” Mr. Jones said with the smallest of smiles in evidence. “The very man of whom we were speaking.”
Alex nodded the correct amount despite the confines of the carriage. “Delighted to see you again, Mr. Jones.”
“I am happy and surprised, I can say the same,” the lowborn but modestly rich man replied deliberately as was his style.
“And why is that, sir? Have I finally met your expectations? It would be a good thing, actually if I did.” Alex glanced at Roxanne. “Ma cherie, please, may I ask you very kindly to put your hands over your ears and hum a few bars of the French anthem?”
“Of course, Alex. I�
��ve had to hear it so often from you, I fairly know it by heart.” She began to laugh. And for the first time since he had met her, she did exactly as he bade without a single question. The notes were as poorly rendered as was humanly possible and he loved her all the more for it for some ridiculous reason.
The entire situation was surreal and a bloody miracle in the making. He was not foolish enough to think the spell would last long.
“Mr. Jones, you are the person who comes closest to a father for Roxanne. I would ask your permission for the great honor of Roxanne Newton’s hand in marriage.”
A tiny smile crept on her face, which was turned to the carriage window.
“Louder, cherie,” he requested.
She obeyed, but the smile remained.
“And just how do you mean to provide for her, Your Grace?” Mr. Jones demanded.
“As best I can. There will be blunt from the dairy and the chickens and eggs at first. But over the course of the next twelve months, I have every expectation of improvement in our living circumstances. However, most of the monies at the start will go toward the improvement of the Mount.”
Mr. Jones’s lips twitched. “I don’t think that would work, Your Grace. Roxanne is not accustomed to living in straightened circumstances.”
Roxanne stopped her awful humming and frowned at Mr. Jones. Both men glared back at her. She resumed her off-key rendition. And then abruptly stopped as the carriage lurched to a halt.
The door opened once again and Mémé was helped inside with the aid of Isabelle. Before the door could be closed, Candover, out of breath, leapt inside, too. “Finally,” he ground out.
“We were wondering and worrying what had become of you, James,” Isabelle said sweetly.
“Perhaps. But I cannot be sure since no one cared enough to stop and learn I’d been forced to accept a lift from a cart full of the most animated crowd of miners,” he said haughtily. “They even provided spirits more vile than that god-awful absinthe.”