by Never A Lady
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
He drew a shaky breath, then launched himself into her arms, his thin arms encircling her neck. Alex hugged him tightly, savoring the sensation, for he didn’t often allow hugs. He pulled away seconds later, and she let him go.
Chucking him lightly under the chin, she said, “Now take your orange and off with you.”
He dashed to the table, where the extra oranges were stacked, and grabbed the top one. Then he walked to the door and opened it. After a final look over his shoulder, he waved, then left.
After the door closed behind him, she and Emma exchanged a look. “I’ll look after him, Alex.”
“I know.”
“About this Lord Sutton…he came here before today?”
“Yes.”
“So he knows ye’re not married.” Emma’s gaze turned troubled. “I saw the way he looked at ye, Alex. Like ye were a tasty morsel and he were a starvin’ man.”
She should have been appalled. Instead, her heart leapt with excitement.
“Ye know that a man like him would only take ye, then leave ye. Probably with his brat in yer belly.”
“A man like him?”
Emma made an exasperated sound. “A fancy toff. Only after his own pleasures. Mark my words, he’s used to gettin’ what he wants, no matter the cost to others, and he wants you.”
“I agree that many people in Society are like that, but there’s more to him. So much more.” She drew a deep breath, then asked, “What if I told you that I want him, too?”
Emma frowned, clearly considering. Finally, she said, “Ye know yer heart’ll get broke.”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, I guess ye’d just have to decide if ye think it’d be worth the pain ye’d suffer after he tosses ye aside like yesterday’s trash. ’Cause ye know that’s wot he’ll do.”
Alex nodded, inwardly wincing at the reality. “Yes. I know.”
“Fer me, I’d be terrified of a fancy bloke like that. Strange birds those rich toffs are. But if his footman were to so much as crook his finger at me, can’t say as I’d be able to resist. Or want to. And since he works at a fancy house, he’d no doubt toss me aside like yesterday’s trash, too—and I’m guessin’ it’d be worth the heartbreak.” Emma squeezed her hand. “Ye do what ye think is best—for you. Ye know I’ll love ye no matter what. And will help ye pick up the pieces after he’s gone.”
A wave of love, strong and fierce, crashed over her, and she hugged Emma. “Thank you. Now, about what I wanted to tell you…” She quickly gave her friend the direction of the Wexhall town house, telling her about Dr. Oliver’s desire to purchase oranges for his wife. “Come tomorrow. If you bring the knapsack for Jack, I’ll deliver it.”
“I’ll be there. With lots o’ oranges. And don’t ye worry about Jack. I can take care o’ his delivery ’til ye come home.”
Unable to keep still, Alex began to pace. “But I’m leaving you with all the baking, the children, and what about your reading and writing lessons?”
“They’ll all still be here waitin’ when ye return. The only thing I want ye thinkin’ about is yer safety.” Then her eyes twinkled. “And maybe a way fer me to meet up with yer fancy bloke’s footman.”
In spite of her heavy heart, Alex smiled. “I’ll see what I can arrange.”
Two hours later, Alex found herself standing in a bedchamber at the Wexhall town house, in the likes of which she’d never imagined sleeping. Dr. Oliver’s beautiful wife, Lady Victoria, who was as gracious as she was stunning, had escorted her to the chamber more than a quarter hour ago, leaving after telling Alex that dinner was served at eight.
But since the moment she’d left Alex alone, all she’d been able to do was gape. Lady Victoria had called the beautiful bedchamber “the garden room,” and with good reason. The green color scheme, accented with a thick grass-colored carpet, its border intertwined with leaves and colorful flowers, made it appear as if she stood in a blooming meadow.
Walking slowly around the perimeter of the room, Alex ran her fingertips over the textured silk-covered walls, which were a shade paler than the carpet and admired the groupings of gilt-framed paintings of flowers. An extravagant bouquet of pale pink roses nestled in a crystal vase set on the bedside table filled the air with a delicate floral scent.
Her gaze fell upon the beautiful bed, and her feet moved toward it, as if in a trance. The bed looked so large and so incredibly soft and inviting, like a green satin cloud, that she couldn’t resist trailing her hand over the beautiful counterpane and elaborate tasseled pillows. She found herself peeking over her shoulder, unable to shake the feeling that any second someone would burst in and order her from this heavenly room.
She slowly sat on the edge of the mattress, then took an experimental bounce. A quick laugh filled with jubilant wonder she couldn’t contain burst from her lips at the delightful sensation. After another guilty peek to make certain she wasn’t about to be evicted, she lay down, carefully, so as not to rumple the counterpane.
Her eyes slid closed on a long sigh of pleasure as she sank into the softness. Surely this was what fluffy clouds felt like. Never in her entire life had she rested upon anything so comfortable.
How many times had she dreamed of sleeping on such a bed, in such a room? More than she could count. Every one of those miserable nights she’d spent huddled in doorways or hiding behind piles of garbage, suffering through rain and cold and oppressive heat, although in truth she’d actually welcomed the summer to ward off the cold that never seemed to fully seep from her bones. Sometimes she’d slept inside, but those rooms were invariably dark, dirty, and foul-smelling places where she’d clustered with others like her. When she’d finally stolen enough money to afford to put a solid, albeit somewhat leaky roof over her head, it had been a day she’d never forget.
Realizing it was best to get up before she decided she never wanted to rise, she left the comfort of the bed and walked to the French windows along the back wall, through which ribbons of golden sunshine slanted. She noted with delight that the windows opened to a balcony. She stepped outside, smiling when the breeze ruffled her hair, and looked down at the small garden below, surrounded by a stone wall and tall, perfectly manicured hedges, unable to fully grasp that she was actually a guest here. Not the hired help paid to entertain the partygoers, but a guest.
God help her, she wasn’t certain if she were more excited or intimidated. For the several hours’ duration of the Society soirees at which Madame worked, she was able, with an effort, not to gawk at her luxurious surroundings. But this…being a guest in this fine home where everyone possessed impeccable manners…would she be able to behave in a way that wouldn’t shame her? Wouldn’t give away her disreputable past? After so many years of carefully observing and listening to the Quality, absorbing their speech patterns and mannerisms like a sponge, she’d been confident enough to take her card-reading talent and adopt her Madame Larchmont persona. She’d been determined to stop stealing, to cease trying to make something of herself by taking things that belonged to others. Perhaps the rich people she stole from didn’t deserve all their fine things and their money, but the fact that she stole them, in her mind, made her just as undeserving.
But no matter how accomplished her acting abilities, or the fact that she no longer picked pockets, she wasn’t one of them. Wasn’t a lady. Never would be. And now, standing amid all this elegance, she felt as incongruous as Colin had looked earlier in her rooms. This stay in this fine home with its servants and plentiful food and elegant belongings was merely temporary. And she needed to remember that.
Just as she needed to remember that nothing save heartache would result from allowing herself further personal involvement with Colin. Kissing him again, while incredibly tempting, was a temptation she simply had to resist. There was no room for her in his life and she needed to forget her impossible attraction to him. For her own peace of mind. A liaison with him risked her reputat
ion, which in turn risked everything she’d worked so hard for. A few hours of pleasure were not worth the risk.
Thus resolved, she returned inside and finished exploring the room, noting with embarrassment that her meager gowns already hung in the wardrobe, obviously the work of a maid. Embarrassment turned to a sense of awe. A maid—taking care of her! Wait until she told Emma.
Shaking her head, she walked to the small, feminine-looking desk in the corner and gingerly perched herself on the delicate chair. After a brief hesitation, she pulled her cards from the pocket of her gown and stared at the silk-wrapped bundle, torn between her desire to read her own cards and trepidation at doing so.
She’d never before feared reading her own cards, but now she dreaded seeing something she didn’t want to. But she had to know…
After drawing a bracing breath, she unfolded the silk and, after shuffling and cutting the deck, slowly turned over the cards. When she finished, she stared. Then began to tremble.
It was all there…her cards nearly identical to the ones she’d dealt for Colin. They showed betrayal. Deceit. Death. All revolving around the dark-haired man—the same dark-haired man who’d figured so prominently in her cards for years. And at the center of it all, a dark-haired woman.
The fact that her reading so closely resembled Colin’s couldn’t be a mere coincidence. But the two questions the phenomena suggested made her heart pound in slow, hard thumps of dread. Was it possible that the danger surrounding Colin meant he was the intended victim at Lord Wexhall’s party?
And was it possible that she was the dark-haired woman?
After leaving Alexandra at the Wexhall town house in Victoria’s very capable hands, Colin arrived home and made his way to the drawing room, where he visited his secret stash of marzipan. He selected a piece that looked like a perfect miniature orange, then settled himself and his prize in his favorite wing chair. He was about to take his first bite when a knock sounded at the door.
Barely covering his irritation, he called out, “Come in, Ellis.”
The door opened, and Ellis entered. “Dr. Nathan is here, my lord. Are you at home?”
“Yes, are you at home?” came Nathan’s voice from just behind Ellis. The butler winced.
“I’m at home, Ellis, thank you.”
Nathan strode across the room and sat opposite him. He appeared about to speak, when he stilled, then sniffed the air. “I smell marzipan.”
“Yes, I’m certain you do.” He held his orange aloft, then with great relish, slowly bit it in half.
“I thought you said I’d finished the last piece.”
“I lied.”
“Where are they?”
“Heinous torture could not drag that information from me. Now, why are you here—again? I’ll be seeing you in an hour for dinner.”
“Several reasons. First, have you found the gift I brought you?”
“No—for which I feel suspiciously relieved. And what do you mean by ‘found’? Why not simply give it to me and be done with it?”
A crooked smile lifted one corner of Nathan’s mouth. “This way is more fun.”
“For you, yes. How will I know when I ‘find’ this gift?”
“Oh, trust me. You’ll know.”
“Sadly, that’s just what I’m afraid of. What other reasons do you have for once again darkening my doorstep?”
“As you had a guest earlier, there was no opportunity for the private conversation I’d come to have, and I don’t want to risk being interrupted at Wexhall’s later this evening. A conversation I intend to have with you right after you tell me about this Madame Larchmont.”
Colin popped the other half of his marzipan into his mouth, then took his time chewing, keeping his expression carefully blank. After he swallowed, he asked, “What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
“What makes you think there’s anything to tell?”
“The fact that you kissed her is a fairly good indication.”
Bloody hell. Why did his brother have to be so damnably observant? “What makes you think I kissed her?”
“Being an excellent kisser myself—according to my wife—I know the look of a well-kissed woman. It was a look Madame Larchmont wore like a red banner. Since you’re clearly not going to volunteer any information, I’m forced to ask. Is she a widow, or merely pretending to be married?”
“What makes you think she isn’t married?”
“Because I know you. You’re not the sort of man who would trifle with another man’s wife.”
Damn it, the way Nathan always thought the best of him, never doubted his honor or integrity, humbled him.
“Thank you for that vote of confidence,” he said quietly. “God knows it’s far more than I deserve.”
“If you say that one more time, I swear I’m going to start pelting you with eggs again,” Nathan said mildly. “So, which is it—widow or pretending to be married?”
“Pretending.”
Nathan nodded. “The illusion of a husband would offer her a measure of safety, security, and freedom she’d not have as an unmarried or even widowed woman. She’s clearly very intelligent.”
“Yes, she is.”
“And obviously enamored of you. Feelings it’s clear to me, who knows you so well, are reciprocated.”
A blindfold. That’s what he needed to give his far-too-observant brother. A bloody blindfold. “I can’t deny I find her attractive.”
“I suspect it’s a bit more involved than that, which does not mesh well with your bride-finding plans.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“So, do you wish to tell me all about her, or would you rather begin by explaining the reasons behind your sudden decision to get married?”
“I thought we’d agreed to have this conversation tomorrow over breakfast.”
“We did. But as we have the privacy to do so now, let’s.”
As his own feelings regarding Alexandra were so conflicted, he opted to postpone discussing her as long as possible. Leaning forward, he braced his elbows on his knees and told Nathan everything—the recurring nightmare where he was trapped in a dark, narrow space, knowing death was near. The growing sense of doom, of time running out, and the gut-level yet inexplicable knowledge that something bad was going to happen to him.
Nathan listened intently and, when he finished, asked, “How are these feelings now that you’re here in London?”
“Stronger. But that could merely be the result of my visits to unsafe areas while following Madame Larchmont.” He dragged his hands down his face. “I’m hoping this is just some aberration brought on by the fact that I’m now the same age Mother was when she died.”
“And you think the same fate of dying young awaits you?”
“It’s not something I ever dwelled on, but once the nightmares started, I thought of the age similarity, and now, ridiculous as it seems, I cannot get the thought out of my mind.”
“I don’t think it’s ridiculous,” Nathan said. “Indeed, it’s a phenomenon I’ve seen in several patients. The fear of death manifests itself as one approaches the age at which they lost a parent or sibling or loved one, and, unfortunately, the anxiety doesn’t fully dissipate until the next birthday.
“With you, however,” he continued, “given how finely tuned I know your instincts to be, I’m very much inclined to believe that your feelings of impending danger are correct. The question is what sort of danger? Actual physical danger? Or something more benign?”
“Such as?”
Nathan shrugged. “Given your search for a wife, perhaps you are in danger of suffering a broken heart.”
“Extremely doubtful, as I’m not planning to make a love match.”
“As someone whose own recently unplanned plunge into love caught him totally unawares, I feel the need to caution you that when the heart is involved, plans invariably…go astray.”
Nathan’s words unsettled him in a way he refused to examine too closely, a
nd unable to sit still any longer, he rose and paced the length of the hearth rug. “The nightmare revolves around physical danger, and that’s what my instincts are warning me of.”
“It’s also what your card reading today indicated, and from what I gather, your two previous readings as well.”
A frown pulled down his brows. “Yes. I have to admit that I’d lent little credence to Madame Larchmont’s predictions before, but clearly what she told you was accurate.”
“Eerily so. Had you told her anything about the events of four years ago?”
“No. Nothing.”
“Which only makes what she told me all the more eerie.”
“While I’m at a loss to explain or understand this talent she possesses, I can no longer dismiss her predictions, especially as they so closely mirror my own sense of danger…” His words trailed off and he halted as a thought occurred to him. He looked at Nathan. “I wonder…”
“What?” Nathan asked.
“Given the previous attack on Wexhall, we agree he could be the intended victim. But consider that I’ve sensed danger for myself and the eerily correct Madame Larchmont has predicted the same. Add that she’s heard of a plot in which a person of some note, as a peer could be described, is to be killed. This crime is to take place at the home of the man to whom I used to report, at a party I’m scheduled to attend. Then add that I’m acquainted with every name on the list of people who were in the vicinity when Madame heard the voice last night. Is all that merely coincidence?”
Nathan sat forward in his chair. “I’m not a big believer in coincidences.”
“Nor am I.”
“You’re thinking you might be the target at Wexhall’s party.”
“I think it’s possible, yes. Don’t you?”
“Hearing all those coincidences tells me it’s a theory that cannot be dismissed out of hand. But why would anyone want you dead?”
“Surely, given what happened to you only nine short months ago, you don’t need to ask.”