by Sophia Nash
“And where is Mary?” Isabelle asked.
“She refused to leave the cart,” Candover muttered, a rare rueful expression revealed momentarily.
Everyone laughed heartily, making them aware just how tight the carriage had become with the six of them crammed inside.
“So where are we, Alex?” Isabelle asked. “Have you asked Roxanne to marry you yet?”
Roxanne bit back a smile. “No, I do believe I have to get to the anthem’s refrain again before a hint of a proposal will be heard. So please do be quiet, dearest, for it’s taking an age.”
Mémé clapped her hands in delight.
“Oh, good! We didn’t miss it,” Isabelle said, a huge lovely smile overspreading her face as she tucked Mémé’s skirting away from Mr. Jones’s boots.
Candover had regained his senses and said not a word. He was looking as far away from Isabelle as he could.
Roxanne’s insides were twisted in anticipation. This simply was not possible. How could she have gone from knee-weakening horror to overflowing happiness in such a short period of time? She only wished Mr. Jones would spare Alex any further pain. Did he not know that she would be willing to work the mines herself if it meant more money to satisfy Mr. Jones’s protective nature?
Mr. Richard “Dickie” Jones glanced at the circle of people in his carriage. “As I was saying, His Grace is unable to support Roxanne in the fashion she is accustomed, and so I would turn down his kind offer, except for one thing.”
All eyes bore down on the gaunt man.
“Yes?” Candover finally spoke.
“Well, Roxanne is an heiress, and of age, and as such, she should be allowed to make her own decision,” Mr. Jones replied. “If you will pardon me for saying so, Your Grace, only idiot peers require their womanfolk to be sold into bondage. So what say you, Roxie? Do you want this fool bloke? He be a pretty one, to be sure, but perhaps a bit too froggish for a practical bonny lass such as yourself, no?”
“I am not an heiress in any way, Mr. Jones, as you well know. And by the by, I don’t take kindly to compliments, except perhaps French ones on rare occasions.”
To his credit, Alex said not one glib word. His lips did twitch, however.
“Roxanne,” Mr. Jones said in all seriousness. “My dearest and only goddaughter, you are, indeed, an heiress. When word of your death reached me, I did as your father bade me on his deathbed. I retrieved the fortune and hid it in a new place.”
“Why did he ask you to do that?” Roxanne’s mouth had gone dry.
“He worried Paxton would follow you if you ever dared to retrieve the fortune. And he worried he would try to harm you. If anything happened to you, your father wanted his money to go to the mining families.”
“Of course,” she whispered.
“He also suggested,” Mr. Jones continued in the shocked silence, “the distribution should not be done quickly for fear that Paxton would question any change in the mining community’s spending habits. And so I was to hide the fortune, and wait a year before slowly apportioning his wealth.”
“But then we arrived on your doorstep,” Alex ground out. “And you said not a word to her.”
“Of course not. I knew her father wouldn’t want me to give Roxanne a shilling if any shenanigans were at play. And you, sir, are a known fortune-hunter, just like that blackguard Paxton. I would have given it to her eventually.”
“But now you’ve changed your mind about him,” Roxanne said softly.
“You certainly took your time about it,” Alex added dryly.
“Well, it’s a lot of blunt,” murmured Mr. Jones.
“Et bien, dites donc. How much?” Mémé’s lightning-fast response did nothing to aid her pretended nonchalance.
Mr. Jones glanced around the faces surrounding him. “She didn’t tell you?”
Alex looked at her.
“You never asked.” She shrugged her shoulders.
“One hundred ten thousand pounds,” Mr. Jones replied.
Alex and Candover froze in shock. Isabelle burst out laughing and clapped a hand over her mouth.
“What is it?” Roxanne said, looking at her dearest friend.
“Why, I do believe you are richer than I!”
Alex blinked.
“I told you I’d repay you,” she whispered to him.
Mémé clapped her hands like a young girl. “Oh, do let’s order new drapery for all the chambers. And new carpets. Furniture . . . oh, and the wine cellar, my darling Roxanne. And then we shall plan a grand wedding.”
“No,” Alex ground out.
“No?” Mémé and Isabelle asked, their voices echoing in the confines of the carriage. The vehicle swayed and hit a bump in the road, leaving half of them on the other half’s laps.
Roxanne was now in Alex’s arms quite conveniently. She wrapped her arms around his neck. His eyes were very dark in the night and he said not a word.
She touched the ends of his hair. “I take back my request that you go before the House of Lords to ask them to look into the condition of the roads. They’re quite conveniently pitted. But, please, I really would like to help with the reconstruction of the Mount. It is only fitting considering everything you have done for me.”
He sighed. “I will not take your money. It is yours to do with as you choose, but it will not be spent on the Mount. I, too, have plans and they do not include spending your money.”
She smiled.
Mr. Jones smiled.
Alex met her eye to eye. “And I’ll agree to only one female’s wedding plan. Yours.”
Mémé exhaled. “Oh, do tell him, cherie! We must begin right away if you are to be married within two months. I fear that’s the limit of my great-nephew’s patience. I shall have to house you in my adjoining chamber to keep him from you. And—”
Roxanne laughed. And laughed all the harder when she realized all eyes were upon her.
Alex cradled her head in his hands and whispered in her ear. “Will you have me, then, cherie? Whatever you like, I will do. Just tell me.”
“At the Mount,” she murmured.
He pulled back slightly to examine her face.
“As soon as we arrive,” she continued.
It was his turn to smile.
“It’s a perfect plan, actually,” Roxanne said. “The archbishop is there, as will be all our friends. And I don’t want anyone else. And I don’t want wedding finery. I just want . . . you.”
“And so you have me, cherie,” he said as softly as he could manage despite the fact that everyone could hear him.
“And what of the Prince Regent?” Candover asked quietly. “His Majesty is going to demand some sort of repayment at the very least when he learns of her fortune. It will take a miracle for him to agree to allow the two of you to marry as it stands.”
“I rather think, James,” Isabelle replied, “His Majesty will have little choice.”
“What know you of what Prinny will require when he hears this news?”
“I know enough that if His Majesty follows our advice,” Isabelle suggested softly, “and that of all the other dukes we can muster—such as Sussex, and Barry—that he will not say no, especially if we suggest the populous might very well adore the idea of a commoner marrying one of the royal entourage. This might endear the monarchy to commoners unlike anything else.”
Alex looked at Candover. “When are you going to realize, mon ami, that women rule the world?”
Mémé smiled. “Of course we do, cheri. You always were the most intelligent male of the famille. You get that from me, I think.”
“And do you know what I got from my father?” Alex murmured.
“What?” Roxanne asked with much curiosity.
“The ability to search out an extraordinary soul willing to take a risk beside him, all while discovering a heretofore unknown great need to protect her, nurture her, and bring her enough joy to last for a lifetime.”
“How lovely,” she murmured, sinking her nose into t
he warmth of his neckcloth. “Your English compliments improve hourly.”
Candover exhaled. “Yes, well, I daresay compliments will not suffice for Prinny. Have you no other plan, Kress, if Isabelle’s notions are not sufficient to bring the Prince Regent around?”
Alex kissed the top of Roxanne’s head, in front of all of them, and could not keep his eyes off of her as he replied to the premier duke. “You do realize we will be great friends, James, after all, don’t you?”
“I beg your—”
“It’s taken an age to make out your character, I’ll admit. You might enjoy playing the cool, condescending, watch fob–jangling, quizzing glass–peering premier duke, but I know you better now and I like you. And you may have already forgotten that you performed the one and only favor I requested of you long ago when you took your leave of the Mount, but I have not.” Curiosity piqued in the heated carriage as Alex stroked her hair, in the fashion she adored.
Candover raised his quizzing glass but then lowered it as he realized he was playing into Alex’s description. He raised his chin a notch instead. “I did not take my leave voluntarily. I was nearly kicked out of—”
Alex interrupted, amused by Candover’s inability to accept gratitude. “I refer to the favor in which you retrieved the Letters Patent from my solicitor’s office in Kensington and then took the trouble to give them to me whilst I was in that chamber with Prinny back in Lamerton.”
“Well, of course I did. You asked it of me. What has that to do with it?”
Roxanne’s neck began to prickle in the way it did before something interesting unfolded.
Alex’s eyes kept boring into hers alone. “While Mémé and Isabelle chattered in our carriage, I perused the Letters Patent I requested from James, and found a tiny clause specifying that in times of war, the owner of the Mount may rely on the sovereign to provide funds to rebuild any damage to key outposts. And”—he held up a hand to keep from being interrupted—“furthermore, Kress House in London is unentailed, something I did not know. I shall sell it. Roxanne will be far happier here, and . . . so will I. The monies will go toward fulfilling our plans at the Mount.”
And for the first time in Roxanne’s life, she heard Mr. Jones laugh. It was a lovely, deep sound that came from the bottom of his lean stomach. Slowly, everyone joined him, and Roxanne clasped her beloved closer and reveled in the happiness that had eluded her for so long.
“So it is settled, then?” Isabelle said. The duchess’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “Will you at least allow me enough time to pick a bouquet for you, Roxanne?”
“Only if it is kidney vetch,” Alex replied.
The carriage filled with the sound of laughter. Mr. Jones scratched his head as the excitement subsided. “Perhaps this is the time to clear my conscience,” the older man said with resignation replacing his happiness. “I fear I must turn myself over to whoever is chosen as the new magistrate in our county.”
Alex scrutinized the man. “If you are going to try and tell us that you were the one who shot Paxton, Mr. Jones, I suggest you save your breath. I killed him.”
“You most certainly did not,” Roxanne insisted. “I did.”
Candover shook his head. “Enough. There will be no more talk of Lawrence Vanderhaven. A man who leaves his wife to die doesn’t deserve this sort of scrutiny. Any sort of investigation will be halted.” The premier duke pursed his lips and added, “By me personally.”
“And I assure you, Mr. Jones, that I, and the rest of the royal entourage, will ensure it,” Alex added.
Dickie Jones, one of the most respected and honorable men in all of Cornwall, sighed deeply in relief. He’d done what his best friend, Cormick Newton, had asked him to do on his deathbed. He’d protected Roxanne with his own life, and much to his astonishment, it appeared he would be none the worse for it. Praise the Lord.
By the time the weary travelers reached the Mount, darkness was well entrenched and the first chill of autumn lurked afoot in the castle’s mysterious corners.
“Perhaps we should wait until morning, Alex,” Isabelle said. “How will I ever find that vetch at this hour? What time is it anyway?”
“It’s merely half past four in the morning,” Candover said with a yawn so wide, everyone assembled in the great hall could hear his jaw crack.
Mémé leaned against Mr. Jones, yet had not one hair out of place. Only Alex and Roxanne were wide awake, the joy that was upon them keeping them from any sign of exhaustion.
“Come along, Isabelle, I shall help you find that organ vetch, for we’ve not a chance of talking them out of it now,” Candover muttered.
Isabelle was so shocked by his suggestion that the petite duchess placed her arm on the tall duke’s arm with nary a word.
The archbishop appeared asleep on his feet as he mumbled something that sounded remarkably like a curse as he searched the book of prayer for the wedding vows.
Roxanne went on tiptoe to whisper in Alex’s ear. “John isn’t here. Nor is Mary.”
“Mary, I daresay is happily enchanting a clutch of spellbound tinners. And John? He will return in a moment, cherie.” Alex looked down at her with the blinding light of happiness, and something else in his eyes. “He’s merely retrieving something for me.”
Mémé moved closer to them, her arms out in front of her. “Roxanne, I must thank you. Merci, cherie. You are truly the daughter I never had.”
“Great-niece,” Alex chided.
“Yes, yes. Great-niece, niece, daughter, sister—c’est la même chose. The same thing . . . Family.”
Emotion welled in Roxanne’s heart.
“Ah, ah, ah,” Mémé reproached softly. “Tears of joy are insupportable. Remember?”
“Of course, Mémé.” And she quoted her soon-to-be great-aunt. “Tears of joy are boring. One should shout when joyful.”
“Exactement. You are very quick. I like that.”
Mémé reached out her hand at the same moment that John walked up to Alex and handed him a small box. Mémé’s fingers touched John’s hair.
“Thank you, John,” Alex said.
“John,” Mémé murmured, “your hair is so soft. Just like . . . What color is it?”
“Brown, ma’am.”
“A very nice dark chestnut, actually,” Roxanne inserted as she gazed at her beloved.
“And your eyes?” Mémé would not leave off.
“Brown. Very common.”
“I see,” Mémé said, not seeing at all.
The archbishop ambled forward, one hand rubbing his eyes. “Well, then, are we ready?”
“Do you really want the kidney vetch?” Alex’s eyes were filled with emotion impossible for Roxanne to fully absorb. She could not deny him another moment.
“Maybe they won’t return in time.” She hoped they did not. She hoped they would find their own small piece of paradise in the kidney vetch patch.
“Now, then. Let us begin.” The archbishop yawned yet again. “Although this is highly irregular. Marriages are not to be performed at night.”
“Of course,” Alex said with a warm smile. “We would be happy to wait here in the Hall for another hour if you prefer.”
Moans all around, most notably from the archbishop, halted that argument.
“Where is the groomsman?”
“John.” Alex turned to the young man who was nearly his own height, without yet the brawn. “Would you be kind enough to stand up for me?”
“You do me a great honor, Your Grace.”
Alex nodded with encouragement.
“What is your full name, then?” The archbishop had hoisted his spectacles to his round face. “I shall need it for the marriage documents.”
“John Petroc Goodsmith, sir.”
Alex started at the same moment as Mémé.
“Mon Dieu,” Mémé whispered. “Alex, touche ses cheveux. His hair . . . touch it.”
“What is it, Alex?” Roxanne was so cold suddenly. Worried.
“My name
. . .” Alex halted.
“Yes?” Roxanne pleaded.
“Is Alexander John Petroc Barclay,” he finished.
The younger man looked to the older, and the ladies stared at the two of them.
“John,” Alex said, “do you know who John Petroc was?”
“Yes, sir,” he said with his head bowed.
A long silence ensued.
“Alex, please,” Roxanne begged. “Tell us.”
“He doesn’t need to tell me,” Mémé murmured. “I know all the names of the relations, remember, cheri? John Petroc was the given name of the last four Dukes of Kress.”
“I didn’t want you to know,” John said sadly.
Alex laid an arm about the younger man’s shoulders. “John, are you my cousin? Are you family?”
“I’m a bastard,” he murmured. “My mother and the last Duke of Kress . . . It wasn’t her fault. It was . . .”
“You don’t have to explain it, John,” Alex said quietly.
“She was the governess here. The duke took advantage of her one night. She would have been ruined if my true father had not married her. I shall always consider William Goodsmith my real father, not the other,” John insisted.
“Of course, you should,” Alex murmured. “But will you allow a Barclay to be your cousin?”
John Petroc Goodsmith smiled, and Alexander John Petroc Barclay smiled back.
The archbishop yawned. “Such a delightful bedtime story. Do you, Alexander Bar—”
“Alexander John Petroc Barclay,” Alex corrected.
“Yes, yes, yes. Will you take this woman, Roxanne what is it—Tatiana? Harriet?” The archbishop was in misery.
“Roxanne Newton will do,” she said with a small giggle.
His holiness’s shoulders sagged in relief. “Do you take this woman in sickness and in health, for richer, for poorer, in—”
“Yes,” Alex said cutting the man off.
“And I will take him, too,” Roxanne said with a huge smile. “But, I won’t obey, if that is all right with you, Alex.”
“I know better than to try and change you now.”
“But I would die for you, if need be,” she said anxiously.