by Carie, Jamie
It was tempting. But there was something about her easy willingness in the face of just losing her husband that cooled his ardor. She was lonely and afraid, yes, he understood her desperation. But where was her pride? It might have gone a long way on the path of making her a duchess.
Gabriel raised his hand to gently cup her jawline and rubbed his thumb across her cheek. "Claire." He was careful to make his voice soft. "You're not ready for this. You have to grieve him, and then, after a time, you will know what to do. I will see that you have that time."
He'd already explained to her the state of her finances and offered to cover the part of the debt that would at least let her keep her estate. Everything else would be sold off, but there would be enough income from her rents, if she was careful, to manage a comfortable and quiet life. She'd readily agreed to it, but now he'd offended and embarrassed her.
Her eyelids fluttered open and a look of chagrin crossed her face. She turned away from his steady gaze. "I don't want your charity, Gabriel."
"Don't you?"
She flew at him then, beating him with her paltry fists that felt more like small wings of a bird against him. He stood against it until she collapsed against his chest, clinging to him and sobbing. He couldn't hear it, any of it, but her face was all that was sorrow, her arms around him heavy with grief and then grasping his shirt front, her chest heaving against his, breathing in and out with that catch in it, that breath—oh, God help us when we grieve—he held her against him and bore her pain, for a moment, with his.
Maybe this was the kind of woman duty called him to marry. She was what was expected in a duchess, and fortune hunters this lovely were rare in the ton. It would be an . . . uncomplicated life with each of them knowing their place, their part to play.
All he had to do was ask. There was no doubt that she would say yes.
"Claire . . ."
She turned her lovely face toward his. . . . He could feel her breath coming fast in her chest. He could be happy with her . . . couldn't he?
"Claire. I—"
What was he doing? He didn't want the life that was expected of him; he didn't want Claire. He wanted love.
He wanted Alexandria. Her name pounded through his veins, making him inhale and step back. "Claire, I'm sorry I can't help you any longer." He took her hands and squeezed them.
"I thought . . . perhaps . . ." She lifted those gorgeous blue eyes with such questioning innocence.
Gabriel let go of her hands and took a step back. "I'm sorry. Good-bye, Claire." He watched her gather her reticule and walk from the room with her chin held high. After she closed the door, a bark of laughter escaped him. What a web she weaved! There was little doubt she would be remarried before the year was out.
After seeing Claire off, Gabriel returned to his room and sat at the desk. Exhaustion weighed him down. He cradled his head in his hands and sighed. He felt like he'd won some battle, which made little sense, but the feeling was there nonetheless. He rubbed his hands against his face and then reached across the desk for the letters. It was silly, the dark green ribbon he'd put around them to keep them together. He didn't even know why he'd done it, purchasing it at a market house in secret so Meade wouldn't know.
And the letters themselves, read so many times that he feared they might turn into tatters. It was just that . . . he felt like he knew her already. And it was time to find out if what he believed was true. It was time to finally meet his ward face to face. He unfolded her latest letter and reread it.
Dear Guardian Duke,
He chuckled at that. She always had some outlandish new form of address for him with no regard to propriety.
I do apologize for inconveniencing Your Grace in such a manner as not being present at Holy Island when you called. Had I known you were coming I would have, of course, forestalled beginning my journey, though it is of the upmost importance to me. As you will have deduced, I do not believe my parents are deceased, only waylaid by some terrible misfortune. A misfortune that I must investigate and lend what help I can.
As to the prince regent's orders that I return with you to London, I am sure I cannot. Why the prince regent of England has taken such interest in my affairs is simply beyond me. Could he be suffering from another one of his "spells," do you think? It is flattery enough that you have traveled all the way to Ireland to fetch me, but pray, help me find my parents instead. I shall welcome you by my side and know that together we shall discover the whereabouts of my mother and father.
I shall await you in Killyleagh, dear sir, with the same anticipation you have expressed and with the fervent belief that I can convince you to champion my quest.
With great affection,
Alexandria
With great affection. That was a step further than she'd ever proclaimed to feel for him. A sense of renewed strength flowed through him at the thought. There was no time to lose. He rose, packed his belongings, and then told Meade to prepare for the ride to Killyleagh. On horseback, they should be there by late afternoon.
THE ROAD TO KILLYLEAGH PROVED better than he thought. Even though his shoulder ached, Gabriel was glad they hadn't taken a coach and had ferried their horses over from England. He was sure Meade did not share his happiness, but his secretary was improving each time they traveled. By the time they were back in London, he would be an accomplished rider despite his abhorrence for it.
On the outskirts of Killyleagh they paused and took in the picturesque scene. Rolling hills of green dotted with brown fields, and in the distance under the warm rays of afternoon light, Killyleagh Castle. Gabriel had to admit it was grand, a castle fit for the stories in the Land of Ever Young. The town lay at the castle's feet in neat rows of cottages and shops. Beyond that was the wide stretch of blue that was Strangford Lough. Picturesque hardly described it. Striking in a way that true beauty, peace, tranquility, a piece of heaven on earth was striking.
A feeling swelled within Gabriel, a feeling of thanksgiving and awe that he hadn't felt for a very long time. With the searing pain of his "condition" had come a return of feelings, a slow awakening from the boredom, a wonder in the humbler things that he'd had in simpler times, as a boy perhaps. He was suddenly very glad to be alive and in this place. Alex's words to put his hope in God seemed possible in this moment. And this was the perfect place to first meet his ward.
They trotted down the long street toward the center of town. The messenger had come back with the address where Alexandria was staying—The Dufferin Coaching Inn—and it was easy to locate.
After seeing to the care of their horses, Gabriel gave Meade a long look and then walked up the wide steps to the Dufferin's front door. He paused, his hand on the brass latch, took a deep breath, and entered.
"Meade, find out where she is. I will go into the common room and procure us a table. I feel inclined to order a bit of a celebration for our meeting. You will bring her to me."
Meade nodded, his eyes darting around the place and then settling on Gabriel's. There was a bead of sweat on his upper lip. Ah, he was nervous to see her again. Gabriel smiled. Maybe he was afraid of being shot at again. Couldn't really blame the man, could he?
Gabriel turned to the plump innkeeper woman and ordered their best meal be brought round to his table . . . a table of three. Now that he had visited the bank, he could command establishments like a duke again.
She curtsied deep, a quiet smile on her face.
He entered the common room and took off his gloves, an awkward move with one arm still in the sling. At least he'd had one made up to match his dark coat, and it wasn't so glaringly obvious as the white strip of cloth the doctor had given him.
Patrons resided at a few tables, deep in their conversations, a few looking up at him as he entered. He ignored them, like he was trying to ignore the pounding in his veins. He sat down, setting his hat and gloves on the cha
ir next to him. No. That was wrong. She might sit there. Right there beside him. He swallowed hard, feeling as nervous as a schoolboy on his first day at Eton. It wasn't like him and he didn't like it at all. He moved the accessories to the other side of the table, his hat covering the gloves. It looked silly but he couldn't seem to remember what to do with them.
With an exhale he sat back and turned toward the window. He could see the continued rise of the road outside, some washed-out colored buildings and then, there in the distance, the soft blue of the lough. He took a deep breath and concentrated on the soft smudge of blue that met an even bluer horizon. Did he have the speaking book with him?
Did he care?
Would she care? Her reaction was more important than he wanted to admit. And he couldn't for the life of him figure out why. What was wrong with him? God help him, he'd never been so anxious in his life.
A movement from the door brought his attention around. A serving woman came in bearing a loaded tray. She set it down on the table next to him and proceeded to unload a fine silver teapot, cups that looked too delicate to touch, gold filigreed plates of delicacies containing all sorts of sweets and sauces, meats and cheeses, breads and fruits. She bowed low to him, without a word, and turned to go.
Gabriel took a sip of the sugared tea and watched the door. Surely, at any moment, they would enter.
A moment later Meade entered the room, his face gone stark, drained of all color, his hair looking like a lightning bolt had struck him. Gabriel stood as he rushed forward.
"What is it? Tell me she hasn't shot you again!"
Meade shook his head in a slow-motion move.
"What's happened, Meade? Where is she?" The words hissed through quick gasps, his stomach slowly tying into snarls of dread.
She isn't here.
Chapter Twenty-Four
It's one of the hardest things I've ever done," Alex announced to the other inhabitants of the mail coach, a cheaper conveyance they'd been forced to use since her money was stolen, as they rolled into Dublin.
"What is that, lass?" Baylor boomed from across from her, squeezed into the corner of the seat and surrounded by bags of mail. He looked almost afraid of them, causing Montague to lean over and chuckle words into Alex's ear when they first started on the road to Dublin.
"He looks like a red-haired giant surrounded by bags of snakes, if there were snakes in Ireland." That had led to a discussion about whether or not St. Patrick had really driven all the snakes from Ireland as Baylor insisted he had.
Now, after two days of travel, they'd just crossed under the Foster Aqueduct, giving Alex a good view of the city and the Wicklow Mountains in the distance. Church spires and glittering domes towered above the town's buildings, lending an air of fairy tales once again.
Alex answered Baylor's question. "The hardest thing I've ever done is trying to keep from pressing my nose against this window, of course." Alex laughed. "Have you ever seen anything so grand? Dublin is amazing!"
"It's the second largest city in the United Kingdom, just after London, and a good deal nicer than that place." Montague had been pointing out the landmarks as they passed them. They crossed Carlisle Bridge, where Alex had a clear view of the River Liffey and a long line of quays going right through the center of the city.
A little while later Montague pointed out the classical architecture of the Custom House with its high-pillared dome and giant statue on top. It was a massive edifice of Portland stone, sitting near the bay and surrounded by all sorts of floating craft from tall-masted ships to bobbing fishing boats. They turned down Westmoreland Street and came to the college green with Trinity College just ahead on the left. Across from the famous college was the post office and Bank of Ireland.
Alex pulled herself from the grandeur long enough to note the location of the bank. Very soon she would have to make a visit there. Upon seeing her ransacked room, Alex had sold the only jewelry of value that she owned, a strand of pearls, to Mistress Tinsdale. It had been enough to get them to Dublin and room and board for a few days. She would have to convince a dressmaker of her ability to pay through the duke; there was that letter from his own pen stating that she needed new clothes. That should do. And then she would be able to coax a substantial line of credit from the duke's accounts—it was her money she wanted, after all. But first, they had to find lodgings and she had to have a new dress made up. One did not appear as the duke's ward demanding credit in anything less than the latest fashion. It would take a little time and some convincing, but she was determined to make her plan work.
Equally important was an introduction to the Royal Irish Academy, which was said to be at 114 Grafton Street, according to the mail-coach driver. She would ask Montague to find out what he could on that front. Men would respect him, being a famed admiral and all. Baylor could escort her to the dressmakers as her guard. He'd be handy with all the packages and intimidating at her side when she called on the bank. She ticked off the order in her mind: lodgings, the dress, a visit to the bank, and then off to the academy. It would all have to be done quickly. She didn't know if the duke would find her in Dublin, but she thought, eventually, he would.
The thought of her outright lie . . . his anger . . . Alex shivered even though the coach was plenty warm inside. She didn't want to even think about what he would do to her if he ever, well, when he finally caught up with her. She wasn't so naïve as to think he'd give up. There were orders from the prince regent after all.
Turning her mind away from that dreaded future event, she looked back out the window at the rows of shops selling everything imaginable. She'd never been the sort to shop just for the pleasure of it, but then she'd never had any money and certainly no place to spend it on Holy Island. Her life had been about how the sheep were faring, what the fishermen had caught and harvested that summer, and whether they had enough supplies laid in to last a cold and stormy winter season. Keeping the cold out of the castle was a job unto itself. Buoying the spirits of an island folk who were hard worn sometimes, too superstitious for a sound mind and guarded to all but home and hearth—that's what Alex knew. Dublin felt a dream of a heavenly sort and she was a little afraid where it might carry her.
They pulled up at the post office and lurched to a stop. Baylor uncoiled from his seat like a big red bear, crawled out of the door, and then groaned and stretched up toward the sky. Alex could almost hear his back cracking as he twisted out the kinks. Montague adjusted his long cape and squinted into the sunlight that spilled over the city and warmed the stones to a rosy amber and brown shimmer. Alex smiled, enjoying the fact that she knew them so well now. She stretched too, her stomach growling with hunger. First thing was to find lodgings.
"Montague, the choices are overwhelming me, I'm afraid. Where shall we stay?"
He turned toward her. "Did I forget to mention it?" When Alex nodded with her eyebrows coming together, he continued. "I have a nephew who lives in Dublin. Lord John Lemon. He'll take us in and it will be safer than staying in an inn. The duke, if he figures out where we are, will look for you in paid carriages and inns. I doubt he will know of my Irish relations."
"Are you sure we can just barge in on him like this?"
Montague's eyes grew thoughtful with a glow of humor. "He's young and a bachelor, last I heard. I believe he will be delighted."
It didn't take very long to hire a coach and find Lord Lemon's address at number 31 Fitzwilliam Square. They stopped in front of a row of red-bricked town houses overlooking Fitzwilliam Street. Alex reached up to check her hair, thinking she must look frightful after two days on the road. She climbed down from the carriage and looked around. It was such a peaceful setting. A cobbled walkway in the colors of yellows, tans, and browns meandered between trees and shrubs leading to wide steps and a blue-painted front door. Montague lifted the brass knocker and rapped loudly on the door.
A maid answer
ed, dressed in mop cap and wide apron. "May I be of help?" she asked in a pleasant voice.
Montague bowed his head at her. "I am Admiral James Montague and I'm looking for my nephew, Lord Lemon. Does he still reside here?"
"Oh, yes sir. He's here now." She looked behind Montague at Alex and then Baylor, her eyes widening upon seeing the giant, and then motioned them inside. "Please, come in and I will tell him you've come to call."
The three of them walked in, Alex impressed with the interior of the place. High ceilings with scrolling plasterwork and hanging chandeliers, domed doorways with columns, gleaming woodwork and large windows that let in plenty of light. The furnishings looked masculine and comfortable, the colors rich browns and deep blues and greens. It was homey and elegant at the same time.
Lord Lemon walked into the room, a broad smile stretched across a handsome face as he enveloped Montague in a hug. Alex thought he matched his surroundings perfectly. He was tall, blond haired, with a slight receding hairline that took nothing away from a chiseled face that had noble leanings. He was dressed in the height of fashion in a dark blue waistcoat, tan breeches, and a snowy shirt and neck cloth. His voice was very agreeable as he welcomed them.
"My dear uncle, what a pleasant surprise! I must say, I can't believe you are in Dublin. This must be some story indeed!"
"It is that," Montague agreed, turning toward Alex. "May I present my traveling companions, Lady Alexandria Featherstone of Holy Island and Baylor of Belfast."
Lord Lemon's blue-gray eyes twinkled with interest as they settled on Alex's face. She held his gaze, a small smile on her lips. Lord Lemon took her hand and bowed over it and to her dismay, her hand went clammy with nerves. "May I hazard a guess that this lovely creature is an integral part of this story, Montague?" He didn't release her hand.
"You may." Montague's voice held a note of dry resignation.
Alex pulled her hand free. "The story is reserved for trusted friends, my lord. Shall you be a friend to us?" She was surprised by the confident note in her voice and smiled at him, enjoying the parry and riposte of the conversation.