Anne Barbour (11 page)

March, just turning into Royal Crescent observed the woman’s careless wave to Alison, and her descent to the street with casual interest. It was not until Molly glanced furtively in his direction that his gaze sharpened. He stopped, rooted to the pavement as he recognized the visitor as the woman with whom Lissa Reynard had resided during her sojourn in the metropolis.

My God, what was the Viscountess Callander doing in Bath? What was she doing in Royal Crescent, apparently on the best of terms with Alison Fox? And why was she creeping away as though the tipstaffs were after her? Whirling, he reversed course into Brock Street and stood for a moment, his stomach churning unpleasantly. Without realizing that he did so, he began walking in the opposite direction and did not come to himself again until he had reached the balustrade that marked the entrance to the Pultney Bridge. Here, he stopped and stared unseeingly at the River Avon rushing below him. A number of” things had fallen into place during his peregrination, and he felt as though a bomb had exploded in the pit of his stomach.

He had been extraordinarily stupid, he thought dully. He had, in fact, been duped like the merest greenling by a pair of fathomless blue eyes. How could he have been convinced so easily of Alison Fox’s innocence, when it was by now clear as tears that she was the harpy he had originally assumed her to be, and the woman for whom he had searched so long and fruitlessly?

He should have made the connection instantly between the name Fox and its French translation. To be sure, Alison did not match the description given of the elusive Lissa; she had hidden those fascinating eyes behind tinted glasses and covered the glossy black depths of her hair with a brown wig. He swore aloud. There had even been a clue in the report Pitcher had given him a few days ago—“an extensive visit to her cousin shortly before the death of her father”—which coincided so precisely with the interval Lissa Reynard had spent in London. Fox. Reynard. She was indeed a vixen, more vicious than any female of the species. My God, he would like to return to Royal Crescent right now and strangle her with his bare hands. His fists clenched until his knuckles showed white against the balustrade.

No. He forced his breathing to slow. He would not confront her yet—would not yet take the revenge he had promised himself for so long. He must plan this well, for he intended Lissa Reynard’s suffering to equal his own. He had all the time in the world to craft a fitting punishment for her. She had, after all, avowed her intention of remaining in Royal Crescent for the foreseeable future.

And how sweet the punishment would be. At last, he would be free of the corrosive bitterness that had filled him since the deaths of William and Susannah and his father. The rage that even now consumed him would be cleansed from his soul and he could live again, freed from its burden. He reveled in the knowledge that with her ruin he would be accomplishing a double payment. Oh yes, the vixen Fox/Reynard would live to curse the day she had set out to rob the Brent family.

In the meantime, he would go on with her as before, savoring the retribution that was to come. With a smile that caused a young street urchin in his path to cross his fingers in the air, the earl made his way briskly back to his original destination.

He arrived to find both his aunt and his little sister at the breakfast table. Of Alison there was no sign.

“No, don’t get up, poppet,” he said to Meg, who had scrambled to her feet at his entrance. An expression of wary relief crossed her features at the sound of his pet name for her. She straightened her shoulders.

“Did ... did you wish to speak to me, March?”

March gazed blankly at her. Speak to her? Good God—he had forgotten the contretemps of the evening before. Before he could respond, Lady Edith turned to her nephew and spoke without offering a greeting.

“Now, March, Meggie has told me all about what happened last night, and I have already read her a scold. We have agreed that what she did was very wrong, and she is very sorry about the whole thing.”

March’s interest in his little sister’s escapade was, at this point, nonexistent, but he supposed he’d better see the matter through. “Is that so, Meggie?” he asked mildly. Meg, for the second time that morning, burst into tears.

“Oh, yes, March. I feel positively wretched about going to the stupid ball against your wishes, and those of Aunt Edith and Alison. I nearly got into terrible trouble, and I will never,
ever
do anything like that again.” She gazed at her brother through swimming eyes. “I know I deserve some sort of punishment, and I will accept whatever you choose to dispense,” she concluded with an air of a Christian martyr begging to be thrown to the lions. Despite his agony of soul, March was forced to swallow a smile.

“Sit down, my dear. I must admit that I am terribly disappointed in you.” He noted with a pang that apparently Alison was right, for his words sent a flicker of pain across Meg’s pale features. “However, from what Miss Fox has told me, you have already been punished for your misdeeds. Tell me, Meg, do you truly feel you have learned something from your experience?”

“Oh. yes, March,” the girl breathed. “I never realized before that when you or Aunt or Eleanor or—or anyone else forbids me to do something I particularly wish to do, I have formed the awful habit of getting my back up and simply doing as I please.” Conscious that she had perhaps not phrased this well, she added hastily, “That is, my elders have more experience of life than I, and they are probably right in their strictures—besides having only my happiness in mind.”

“What a laudable sentiment, my dear. I could almost fear that you will soon be making arrangements to give away your possessions to the poor and will send to your modiste for a hair shirt. No, no,” he continued, observing the anguished protest forming on Meg’s lips, “I know you are sincere in your desire to mend your ways, and I appreciate it. And, since Aunt has no doubt toasted your ears with her scold, I see no point in delivering one of my own.”

He sat down in the vacant chair next to Meg. “Will you pour me some coffee, then?” he asked plaintively, “or must I sit here and starve before your eyes?”

Meg jumped from her chair to fill his request, but before she did so, she flung her arms around him in a violent hug. “Oh, March! You are the best of brothers, and I do truly promise to become the best of sisters.”

March felt himself sinking into the emptiness within him. If only all his burdens could be lightened so easily. He returned Meg’s embrace distractedly, and forced himself to sip his coffee as he listened to a resumption of the discussion that had been underway before his arrival..

“I do love fireworks!” cried Meg, referring to the upcoming gala in Sydney Gardens. “I won’t even mind sitting through a concert first.”

“It is to be composed of Mozart pieces primarily,” interjected Lady Edith. “To my mind no one has written a decent piece of music since he died.”

“You do not enjoy Handel?” asked March amusedly. “Or Beethoven?”

“My favorite composer,” said a voice from the door, and March stiffened. “Ah, Miss Fox,” he said, managing to affix a welcoming smile to his lips with only the greatest effort. “We were discussing this evening’s concert.”

Alison, moving lightly into the room, sent March a brief, intent glance. Something was wrong. She felt it instinctively, as though a chill wind had blown through her. She could discern nothing in his face, which was composed in an affable grin. But his eyes ... It was as though a film of ice had formed over his tawny gaze. What had happened? she wondered, and a sick feeling began to tremble within her. In the next moment, she shook off her foolish fancy as he rose to pull out a chair for her at the table.

The next half hour or so was spent in making plans for the evening’s excursion. March rose finally, saying that he had an appointment to meet an old friend of his father’s at the Saracen’s Head Inn for an early luncheon. Aunt Edith declared her intention of repairing to her room to finish the book she had started last night, and Alison and Meg climbed the stairs to Meg’s rooms to choose what each would wear to the fete that evening.

Throughout the remainder of the day, March felt as though he were two people, one of whom carried on the normal business of his life, mouthing pleasantries and exchanging gossip. The other seethed with the turmoil that raged within him. He found himself dwelling on the conversation he had held with Alison that morning. Damn the woman and her talk of trust. What was it they had spoken of? Something about betrayal being the worst crime one human could commit against another—and the most hurtful.

He was dimly aware in one corner of his mind—one that he did not at all wish to examine—that the operative word here was “hurt.” He had come to trust Alison Fox. Worse than that, he had come to like her. Odd that, he mused dispassionately. There were so few people he really liked—including, a small voice whispered, the woman he expected to make his wife. He respected Frances, surely, and admired her, but he did not, he was forced to admit, truly like her, any more than he truly liked, say, Mr. Bratchett, the bespectacled tutor who had dragged him with unrelenting sternness through Greek and Latin as a boy.

He shook himself irritably. All this was beside the point. His betrothal to Frances would be a matter of practicality, and his like or dislike of her had nothing to do with his feelings for Alison Fox, which were a seething cauldron of hatred, humiliation, and betrayal.

His lordship’s valet took one look at him when he was summoned to help him dress for the evening, and proffered shirt, cravat, and waistcoat in unnerved silence. When at last he saw his master from his rooms in the Royal York, he fell into the nearest chair with a trembling sigh of relief.

Somehow, March managed to get through dinner. No one, he was sure, even those who fancied they knew him well, could have been aware of the fury contained behind the urbane face he showed to the ladies at the table. He was able to relax a little during the concert, for in the darkness, he felt no need to mask his emotions. Mozart, on this evening, did little to soothe him, but it did help him to think, and by the time the audience had applauded for the last selection, a plan had begun to develop in his mind for the annihilation of the beautiful Miss Fox.

* * * *

Alison discovered to her dismay that Mozart was failing her tonight. She had looked forward to the concert with delight, particularly since the orchestra was composed this evening of members of the newly formed Philharmonia in London. Their proficiency had been obvious from the start, yet she was unable to lose herself in the music as she usually did. She glanced down the row of seats to where March was seated on the other side of Meg and Lady Edith, but despite the lanterns hanging overhead, she was unable to discern his features. She shifted uneasily in her chair.

She wondered for the hundredth time what had happened to him today. Or was it her imagination that he was indefinably changed? He had laughed and teased at dinner but had eaten practically nothing. He had complimented her on her gown and smiled at her with rigidly curved lips, but his eyes had glittered like ice shards struck from a frozen pond.

She shrugged and consciously unclenched the fingers curled in her lap. Lord Marchford’s good spirits, or lack thereof, meant nothing to her. He would be gone soon, and life would return to normal. She had found great solace in her placid existence with Lady Edith, and when her ladyship’s nephew returned to his own milieu in London, Alison would continue to’ enjoy visits to the Pump Room and Outfield’s Library. Meg’s visit would provide a little needed excitement for a few months, and of course, her quiet moments were always enlivened with plans for her school.

She sank back in her chair. Two weeks ago, this program would have provided her with a great deal of satisfaction. Why it did no longer, she preferred not to consider. She noticed with a start that the orchestra had ceased playing and the sound of applause rose about her. Lord Marchford rose and announced his intention of procuring refreshments to fortify them until the start of the fireworks. Alison watched his departure, admiring despite herself the grace and power in his stride.

Idly, her gaze moved over the throng just leaving their seats. Suddenly she stiffened. Over there, across the little amphitheater, seated with two men and a woman, his head thrown back in laughter—was that... ? The man turned toward her as he spoke to one of his companions. Yes! Oh, dear God yes, it was Jack Crawford! She was quite sure he had not seen her and she leapt to her feet in a blind panic. Turning, she ignored Meg’s puzzled query and hurtled away from the crowd toward one of the dark walkways that led from the main path. Breathless, she plunged into its leafy shelter, only to be brought up short a few seconds later as she collided with a large, muscular form.

Unfortunately, the large form was juggling four glasses of punch, which flew from his grasp upon impact and shattered on the stone paving at their feet.

“Oh!” gasped Alison. “I am so—Oh! It’s you! I did not see ... that is—”

“It seems, Miss Fox,” said Lord March imperturbably, “that you have not curbed your rather unfortunate propensity for dashing into harm’s way.” He fished a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and began dabbing at the lapels of his coat.

“Oh, dear,” said Alison anxiously. “I hope you have not ruined it.” She produced her own handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed at the stain nearest her.

“What about your gown?”

“My ... ? Oh. No, I’m all right,” she replied after a hasty perusal of her bodice. “But I’m afraid you are rather drenched.” She continued her repairs.

“What were you doing, speeding along a dark path by yourself?” His tone was light, but Alison fancied she detected a note of censure. Good heavens, did he think she was on her way to an assignation? She wished she could explain that it was quite the contrary.

“I did not realize I was speeding,” she replied with some dignity. “I merely wished to stretch my legs after sitting so long.”

A silence hung between them for a moment, and Alison suddenly realized that her attempts to dry the earl’s coat had brought her into disturbingly close proximity to the earl’s chin. She looked up and found herself gazing directly into his eyes. Startled, she began to step away, but March placed his hands gently on her shoulders and pulled her toward him. She could feel the warmth of his breath stirring the curls on her cheeks, and discovered that she was having a great deal of difficulty with her breathing. She should push him away. Right now. But lost in the wonder of his nearness, she stayed motionless, aching for him to draw her even closer. When he did, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to lift her face, so that his lips brushed her cheek with a soft caress. He bent over her, and with a sigh, she lifted her mouth to meet his.