Rebels, Rakes & Rogues

by Cheryl Bolen

  He took his plate back to the bedroom, planning to tell Alexandra as much and enjoy her shock.

  She was sound asleep, her head lolling on the pillows.

  “Alexandra?” He took the tray off her lap and set it aside. “Alexandra?” She slumbered on. He inhaled deeply to detect the telltale smell of a gas leak.

  Not even a whiff.

  He ate his dinner and tried again to wake her, shaking her shoulder this time. “Alexandra?” Still no luck.

  He turned off all the gaslights. Then went back and double-checked them all. And triple-checked. “Alexandra?”

  She was out cold.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone to sleep this early. But he climbed into bed beside her, pulled her against him…and held her all night.

  Chapter 45

  “What in heaven’s name is that noise?” Alexandra asked the next morning at breakfast.

  “Rex. I left him asleep in the study.” Her husband gestured toward the connecting door. “I told you he snores.”

  “He’s louder than your ram pumps,” she marveled as a footman poured her tea. “I’m surprised he hasn’t wakened us in the night.”

  “Nothing could have wakened you last night.” She’d never seen Tris roll his eyes before. “I won’t be giving you any more wine at bedtime,” he declared.

  “I cannot blame you for that.” She didn’t remember falling asleep, and she’d awakened to find herself alone. But the sheets had still held his scent, and she’d been aware all night of his arm encircling her, his body curled against her back. “I was sorry to see you gone when I woke.”

  “I woke to find myself in the kitchen,” he admitted, disgruntled.

  “On the floor?”

  “No. Just standing there, eating one of your sugar cakes.”

  “Stealing sweets in the night again?” she teased over the continuing rumble of the mastiff’s snores. “See, you sleepwalked, and nothing bad happened.”

  Tris gave her a look over his coffee. “We were talking about you dozing off on me,” he retorted.

  She felt her cheeks warm. “I can only drink half a glass of wine. Any more and I—”

  “Fall asleep?” he provided with a raised brow.

  “Or get very, very silly.”

  He speared a bite of ham, looking thoughtful as he chewed and swallowed. “I cannot imagine you silly; that would truly be a sight. However, I’m not sure I’m willing to risk you falling asleep in order to see it.”

  Two thunderous snorts came from the adjoining room, followed by blessed silence. Rex must have rolled over. Smiling, Alexandra reached for the jam pot. “Did you make a dent in your work this morning?”

  “A rather large dent, as a matter of fact. I may even find time to get out and take care of some business later in Windsor.” He sprinkled salt on his eggs, watching her spread jam on her toast. “It won’t take long. I promise to be back in time for dinner.”

  “I’m not passing judgment on you. I know you have much to do, thanks in part to my brother.”

  She also knew she wasn’t offering him much incentive to remain home, given the way she insisted on defying his wishes. She feared he might have begun pulling away, distancing himself from her emotionally.

  She set down her knife. “I have much to do as well,” she said, watching him frown at the jam pot. She wished he would look at her. She was trying her best to be cooperative. “I’m meeting this morning with Mrs. Oliver to go over—”

  “No!” His hand darted out and snatched the toast from hers.

  She blinked. “Tris?”

  “It’s strawberry.” He swiped a finger across her toast and licked, turning ashen as he confirmed it. “Strawberry preserves, not cherry.”

  “Dear heavens.” Her heart pumping wildly, she realized the skin on the side of her index finger felt prickly. Spotting a telltale streak of red preserves there, she quickly wiped it off. “I should have looked,” she said, searching her hands for other traces of jam. Finding none, she released a tense breath.

  When she glanced up, Tris had gone even whiter beneath his tan. “I must have switched the preserves in the jam pot.” He scraped rigid fingers through his hair. “I’ve done it again—I’m trying to hurt you in my sleep.”

  “You are not.” She didn’t know which she found more disturbing: discovering strawberries on her toast, or his assumption that he was at fault. “It’s a long way from eating a sugar cake to switching the contents of a jam pot. I’m certain this was an honest mistake. A kitchen maid who didn’t know better must have refilled the pot.”

  “No. Mrs. Pawley assured me she would tell everyone you cannot eat strawberries. It was no mistake. I—”

  “Do you even know where the jam pot is kept?” she interrupted. “Or the preserves?”

  He paused a moment. “I must have hunted around.”

  “In your sleep? I think not. Mrs. Pawley must have neglected to inform someone—not deliberately, of course, but in error.” Who knew how often the woman nipped from the sherry bottle? “Let’s call in the kitchen staff and get to the bottom of this.”

  A few minutes later, the dining room was crowded with kitchen maids, scullery maids, and the small boys who did odd jobs belowstairs. Mrs. Pawley looked perfectly sober—and extremely concerned. Hastings stood solemnly in the back, watching the proceedings. Mrs. Oliver did the questioning.

  “Did you know Lady Hawkridge cannot eat strawberries?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Oliver.”

  “I did, Mrs. Oliver.”

  “Mrs. Pawley made that clear, Mrs. Oliver.”

  “And did you refill the jam pot or see anyone else do so?”

  “No, Mrs. Oliver.”

  “I didn’t, Mrs. Oliver.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  It went on and on, so long that Alexandra began to suffer from the headache, especially because all the denials were only strengthening Tris’s delusional assumptions. At long last, everyone shuffled out.

  “It was me,” Tris said in a dull, resigned tone.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she returned crossly, rubbing her temples. “One of them refilled the pot. I’m not surprised no one would own up to it and risk being dismissed.”

  Someone else had to have done it. She knew, deep in her bones, that an honorable, compassionate man like Tris couldn’t do anything to harm her—or anyone else. Not even in his sleep.

  She reached across the table to lay her hand over his. “You’re only sleepwalking because you’re anxious. You said that’s when it happens, didn’t you? It’s a pattern. And as I’ve said before, I think there’s another pattern at work here as well. You do things when you sleepwalk that you wish you could do while awake. Like kiss me or steal more sweets than you’re entitled to.”

  It was a pretty theory, but Tristan wasn’t convinced, let alone at all mollified. “You can argue that I went to the kitchen in the night for sweets. But your pattern theory doesn’t explain why I would leave a gas line open.”

  “You didn’t. Or at least, not on purpose. You got up—and perhaps dealt with the gaslight in some way since it had been left on—and took yourself downstairs to sleep in your study. I had angered you by questioning your staff against your wishes, so you were separating yourself from me in the night.”

  Had he really wanted to get away from her that night? He hadn’t thought so. But even if her assessment was valid, there was another plausible explanation—another pattern in his sleep. One of mayhem. Violence.

  Murder.

  “It’s the pressure,” she said, squeezing his hand. “As soon as we clear your name, you’ll be fine. I’d wager you’ll never sleepwalk again.”

  He looked at her for a long moment, searching her eyes while a strained silence stretched between them. His gaze dropped to the cameo she wore on a chain around her neck.

  His cameo. She’d take it off someday. Maybe someday soon.

  “I’d feel a lot less pressure if you’d call off this blasted in
vestigation,” he said at last, pushing away from the table. “I’m going back to work.”

  Chapter 46

  There were times in a woman’s married life when she wished she could confer with her sisters. Even though she already knew exactly what they would say.

  Juliana, the peacemaker, would tell her to abide by her husband’s wishes. “Your marriage ought to come first,” she would say, and advise Alexandra to be the dutiful wife and put Tris’s happiness and their relationship before her own desire to right past wrongs.

  Corinna, on the other hand—the rebel—would cheer on her efforts. “You’re entitled to your convictions,” she would say, and advise Alexandra to stand to her guns and let no one, not even her husband, sway her from doing what she thought best.

  And Alexandra would be right back where she’d started. But at least she’d have some hugs and sympathy to bolster her. Here in this strange house, with Tris occupied most of the time, and no neighbors willing to welcome her—a point Leticia had driven home yesterday—she was beginning to feel lonely.

  Still, the first part of her morning had proven quite productive. She and Mrs. Oliver had gone over the household budget, reviewed the cleaning and repair schedules, and discussed all the lower female servants. Everything seemed well in hand. She’d left their meeting assured that Mrs. Oliver was a fine housekeeper indeed.

  Afterward, she practiced on the harpsichord in the north drawing room for a while. It wasn’t hard to play, but the double keyboard would take some getting used to. The sound was also different, thinner than a pianoforte’s, and there seemed to be no way to play louder or softer. Although she was by no means a concert-quality pianist, she did enjoy putting some emotion into her pieces. But there were no pedals, and no matter how she hit the keys—tentatively or with great force—the resulting notes sounded the same. She wearied of it rather quickly.

  Next she considered visiting in the village, but she wanted to take Peggy along to introduce her to everyone, and she’d prefer to have Peggy here, talking to the rest of the staff and compiling the list. The villagers would be there to meet another day. Pursuing the investigation was more important, and even more urgent given this morning’s events. Quite apart from her sisters’ future woes, her husband was miserable now, and apparently dead set on tormenting himself unless and until he was given irrefutable proof of his innocence—preferably hand-delivered on a silver platter and tied up with ribbons, she grumbled privately.

  What the man really deserved was a good smack upside the head, but since she was trying to save her marriage, she would keep that opinion to herself.

  And still more dire was the fact that the longer she continued her efforts—continued flouting her husband’s wishes—the greater the threat to their relationship. She needed to fix this fast, and, in the meantime, somehow manage to stay on Tris’s good side.

  To that end, she decided to peek into the study and ask him to join her for luncheon.

  But he wasn’t there. Disappointed, she sat at his desk, idly straightening piles of papers and stacks of journals. He had told her he had business that might take him away for a while. It would have been nice, though, if he’d sought her out to let her know he was leaving.

  She shrugged philosophically, turning the chair to gaze out the study’s windows. Obviously, she still hadn’t scaled that wall Tris had built, and she’d probably doubled the height with her own actions.

  The study was in the back of the house, and through the windows the gardens beckoned—colorful formal gardens nearby, and then, behind them, an area of grass walks lined with hornbeam hedges and field maples that seemed to enclose smaller, private gardens. It was a glorious day, and she’d yet to explore them.

  She decided she’d take her luncheon out there. And bring along some paper and her family’s cookbook, so she could copy her favorite recipes while enjoying the sunshine.

  A few minutes later, having grabbed a bonnet and arranged for luncheon, she made her way out the front door and down the steps, following the cobbled path that curved around the back of the mansion. A flash of motion by the river made her pause.

  Tris.

  She watched him toss a stick and Rex jump into the river to retrieve it. Mere moments later, the big, wet mastiff scrambled up the bank and shook violently, spraying Tris with water that left splotches on his buff pantaloons.

  Thinking she’d be tempted to laugh if she wasn’t so uncertain of his feelings, she hurried toward him. “What are you doing?” she called.

  To her relief, Tris looked over and smiled. “Playing with the poor beast. He’s been dreadfully neglected of late.” He eyed the book and paper in her hands. “What are you doing?”

  “I was going to take luncheon in the gardens and copy some of my favorite recipes. Would you care to join me?”

  “I’m sorry, but I cannot.” Rex was panting at his feet. He bent to grab the stick and tossed it arcing out over the water, watching as the mastiff gleefully splashed in to fetch it. “I have business in Windsor.”

  She wondered vaguely what he needed to do. She knew Windsor was the nearest sizable town, but did he have his bank there? His solicitor? She’d expect those would be in London. She needed to learn these things if he wanted her to assist with the household finances as she had for Griffin, but they had yet to discuss anything like that.

  And now was not the time. “When I couldn’t find you,” she said, “I thought you’d gone already.”

  “Without telling you? I’m hurt you’d presume me so thoughtless.” Obviously reading her face, he reached to pull her close. “And you were hurt thinking I had. I’m sorry.” He tilted her bonnet back and bent to place a soft kiss on her mouth.

  Emerging from the water, Rex barked. “He hates me,” she said.

  “He doesn’t.” Tris took the stick from the dog’s teeth and tossed it once more, farther out this time. “If he hated you, he’d have taken a bite out of you by now.”

  While Rex bounded back into the river, Tris took the book and papers from her and set them on the grass, then wrapped his arms around her and brought his lips to hers again. “I missed you last night,” he murmured against her mouth. She slipped her hands under his coat, mindless of his damp, dog-splashed clothes. Her heart began to race, the blood rushing through her veins.

  And she knew it was the same for him.

  She was confused and unsure of his feelings from one moment to the next, but one thing she knew for certain: the spark between them would never go out.

  Rex barked until they stopped kissing, then shook and sprayed them both. Alexandra laughed. Tris brushed ruefully at his damp coat. “I really must be going, and I fear Vincent won’t let me off the property without a bath and a change of clothing. I promise to be home in time for dinner.” He gave her another quick kiss, eliciting another bark, then started toward the house, the dog following at his heels. “Enjoy your afternoon,” he called back.

  Feeling warmed and reassured, Alexandra picked up her things and ambled around the house and through the formal gardens. Gravel crunched beneath her feet as she followed the paths bordering beds planted with brilliantly colored flowers. Finally she reached the area of grass walks that she’d seen, lined with hedges that enclosed many small, private compartments.

  She smiled as she peeked into them, glimpsing not only a variety of rather wild-growing plants, but also a surprise in each area. Some hid copies of famous statuary, one a sundial, another a cozy bench for two. Choosing one with a tiny round white gazebo, she slid inside.

  The structure’s roof offered welcome shade, so she removed her bonnet and set it, along with her book, paper, and pencil, on the bench that curved against the back edge. No sooner had she taken a seat than a warm, motherly voice carried through the still summer air. “Lady Hawkridge?”

  Alexandra rose and went to the opening. “Here, Mrs. Oliver!” she called, surprised that the housekeeper was bringing her luncheon personally. “In the gazebo!”

  A moment late
r, Mrs. Oliver entered the tiny garden. But she didn’t bring food. Instead she carried a small stack of letters. “I thought you might want these right away, my lady.”

  Alexandra took them and flipped through the pile. There were six, one from each of her siblings and female cousins. Thrilled, she smiled at Mrs. Oliver. “Thank you so very much.”

  “Enjoy them, dear,” the housekeeper said and walked away.

  With a happy sigh, Alexandra went back to the bench. She opened the two letters from her sisters first. Juliana and Corinna had both written cheerful notes, wishing her well and relating several amusing anecdotes as well as telling her all about a lovely picnic they’d shared with their cousins. Griffin’s letter was shorter, mostly saying he missed her very much and threatening bodily harm to her husband should he fail to take good care of her. Rachael told her all about the goings-on at Greystone and her preparations for her brother Noah’s return. Claire’s letter mentioned the picnic again. And then Alexandra opened the letter from her youngest cousin, Elizabeth.

  We all miss you very much. It was Rachael’s idea we should have the picnic, and also her idea that we should all write to you so you won’t feel lonely in your new home. Wasn’t that so very nice?

  Alexandra had been wondering how it was that six letters had arrived the same day. Grinning, she read on.

  I suppose you’ve heard that Juliana and Corinna were DISinvited to Lady Cunnington’s country garden party. I vow and swear, that made me so livid I wrote to Lady C posthaste with my regrets—and a piece of my mind. Worry not, dear cousin, your sisters have much support. Rachael and Claire have said they will not attend, either.

  The letter fluttered from her fingers to the grass. Good heavens, it was happening already. And not only affecting her sisters, but her cousins, too.

  Her throat tightened like it did when she ate strawberries, her breaths growing rapid and shallow.

  A high-pitched voice snapped her to attention. “Lady Hawkridge?”