Anne Barbour (16 page)

Jack snorted. “You don’t think that makes any difference, do you? Marchford is a wealthy and powerful man. He could get charges trumped up against you with a snap of his fingers.”

“He would not do that,” she said, her voice low and anguished.

“Oh, wouldn’t he just? His entire life has been one of privilege, Alison. When he speaks, somebody by God jumps, and those who don’t, pay dearly. He believes you to have done him a grievous wrong, Alison, and among his kind, that is grounds for the most brutal retribution.”

Alison sat silently. She did not agree with Jack’s reading of Lord Marchford’s character, but he was right in one thing. The earl would punish her for her supposed treachery if he was given the chance, and his retribution might well consist of prison or transportation.

She studied her fingertips, panic rising in her like a frozen tide. Her thoughts raced, but she could see no solution to her problem. For the time being, at least, she was in Jack’s thrall.

“Very well,” she whispered. “I will get your damned five hundred pounds, Jack.”

Jack expelled a long, deep sigh. “That’s a good girl, Alison. I knew you’d see it my way. As I said, you have three weeks—although that’s cutting it pretty close. The sooner I can pay my tab, the better.” He rubbed his hands with the air of a man who has put in a good morning’s work. “I shall stop by in Royal Crescent in a day or two to see how you’re doing.”

“No,” Alison replied sharply, thinking of Meg and the glow in her eyes when she spoke of Jack. “Don’t do that. You seem to have difficulty in understanding this concept, Jack, but I do not like you, and I do not wish to have any more to do with you than necessary. When I have the required funds at hand, I will send for you.”

Anger flashed across Jack’s features to be replaced almost immediately by a look of complacency. “And how do you propose to stop me, my dear? Lady Edith obviously thinks me charming, and as for her delicious little niece, why, I believe she’s rather smitten with me.”

Alison gasped. She stood to face him, clenching her fists, and when she spoke, her voice took on the timbre of tempered metal. “Jack, if I see you cast so much as a single lure at Meg, our arrangement is off.”

Jack’s lips curved in a benign smile. “Now, now, my dear, no need to fly up into the boughs. I was just funning.”

“Well, I wasn’t. I mean what I say, Jack.”

The smile dropped from Jack’s lips and his eyes narrowed. “It seems to me you’re not in much position to be issuing ultimatums—Lissa.” He rose leisurely and, reaching for her hand, pressed her fingertips against his lips. “You may go now. Just remember, the quicker you get me those five hundred pounds, the quicker you’ll be rid of me.”

With a wave of his hand, he turned, and as he walked away, a burst of mocking laughter floated back to her. On legs that felt stiff and not quite part of her body, Alison slowly made her way from Sydney Gardens.

Chapter 12

“And after that, the Prince Regent came riding by. He was stark naked and he threw golden guinea pieces to the assembled mob.”

Several seconds passed before Alison at last made a response to this remarkable speech by Meg, who faced her across the breakfast table.

“I
knew
you weren’t paying attention!” Meg frowned in indignation. “I might as well direct my conversation to the coffee urn.”

“I’m so sorry, Meg.” Alison’s cheeks grew pink. “I’m afraid I was wool-gathering.”

“I should certainly say so! You must have gathered enough today to fashion a carpet. Is there something troubling you, Alison?” asked Meg with sudden concern.

“Oh! Oh, no. That is—no. Do tell me what you were saying. I promise to pay strict attention.”

“I want to know what I should wear to the Kittridges’ musicale next week. I should like to look my best—all my particular friends will be there, after all.” She stopped abruptly, blushing adorably.

“I see.” Alison’s eyes twinkled. “Would one of those particular friends be Peter Davenish, by any chance?”

“Pooh.” Meg tossed her head. “Peter is an infant.”

Alison’s heart sank. “But such an engaging one,” she said, persevering. “And so good-looking, too. Have you noticed how many languishing glances he has been collecting lately? Why, when we were all out riding in the park the other day, I thought Nancy Farwell would fall out of her carriage when she greeted him.”

Meg’s delicate brows flew up. “Really?”

Alison thought she discerned a note of interest in the girl’s voice. At least, she hoped this was the case. She rose purposefully. “Let us go look at your wardrobe. You know, the white muslin—”

“They’re
all
white muslins,” muttered Meg rebelliously.

“... with the pale peach overdress,” Alison went on, unheeding, “is most becoming, and it’s very festive. With the addition of gold ribbons to trim it, with more gold ribbon threaded through your curls, it would be simply stunning.”

By this time, they had reached Meg’s bedchamber, and the young girl ran to her wardrobe. She pulled out the gown in question and laid it on the bed, a pensive expression crossing her face. “Do you know, I think you might be right?” She opened a drawer, and after some rummaging, emerged triumphantly with a spray of white blossoms, delicately tinged with peach. “Perhaps I could wear these in my hair as well and—oh, Alison, what would you think of my gold locket to complete the ensemble? The one March gave me for my birthday last year.”

“Perfect.” Alison moved to the girl and put out a hand to sweep her brown curls atop her head. Standing back to observe the effect, Alison nodded admiringly. “Yes, lovely. If you will give Finster her head, I am sure she will create something utterly charming. You will be the belle of the evening.”

Meg turned to look in the mirror, her eyes dreamy. “Mr. Crawford mentioned that he will be attending the musicale. Do you think he will like me in peach?”

Alison pulled her hand away abruptly. “Good Lord, Meg! Jack Crawford is older than I am, and has not a feather to fly with.”

“He is mature, and so much more interesting than the boys I know—and worldly goods do not interest me,” said Meg, the dreamy gaze having changed into one of mulish militancy.

“Thus speaks a young woman who has never wanted for anything in her life,” replied Alison waspishly, and could have bitten her tongue the moment she uttered the words. Meg glared at her reproachfully. “I know I am fortunate in my, er, fortune,” she said with exaggerated dignity, “but I could live in a cottage, if it were furnished with love.”

At this, Alison found herself so out of charity with the girl that she turned with a swish of her skirts and left the room. Back in her own chamber, she had time to repent her action. Dear heaven, how could she have botched matters so badly? She, who fancied herself adept at handling delicate, adolescent sensibilities. She had done what she had taken such care to avoid up till now. She had created a romantic obstacle for Meg to overcome, thus making Jack even more desirable in her eyes than he had been before. With a mental shake, she reminded herself that she couldn’t let her problems with Crawford and his blackmail affect her responsibility to Lady Edith.

At least, she thought, she could make amends to Meg for her sharp tongue. Vowing to speak to the girl again before luncheon, she busied herself with some long neglected correspondence until she heard Lady Edith’s voice in the corridor.

“I am here, my lady,” she said as she stepped out of her chamber. At the same time, Meg emerged from hers and, seeing Alison, flashed her a smile, half of bravado and half repentance. Relieved, Alison returned the smile and the three ladies descended to the ground floor with Honey bouncing in their wake.

The morning passed swiftly in chatter and plans for the week ahead. It was always a marvel to Alison that Lady Edith and those of her class could while away great chunks of time in the most inconsequential activities, and such was the case now as the old lady and her niece discussed Lady Edith’s coming dinner party. The list of those to be invited was discussed with unrelenting thoroughness, and Alison noted with some relief that Jack Crawford’s name did not appear on Meg’s personal roster.

After lunch. Lady Edith retired for her customary nap, and a group of young misses came to collect Meg for an excursion to Parade Gardens. Alison had barely bid the group good-bye, when her attention was claimed by a thunderous knock on the front door. Masters, hurrying to open it, was nearly thrust to the floor by the sheer volume of several bouquets of flowers that preceded the caller into the house.

“My lord!” exclaimed Alison as March finally appeared from behind the blooms.

“Met a flower woman,” he explained tersely, striving to maintain his balance beneath his fragrant burden. “Never mind,” he said to Masters. “It will be easier to take them to the kitchen myself than to try to hand them over to you without dropping them all.

“The blasted female was an excellent saleswoman,” March continued as Masters ushered him into a small service room adjacent to the kitchen, where bowls and vases of every size were kept. He let some of the blossoms slip into Alison’s hands and laid the rest down on a sturdy wooden table in the center of the room. Masters began pulling containers from cupboards and shelves, until Alison laughingly excused him, promising to call him when the flowers had been satisfactorily arranged.

“And don’t bother any of the servants,” she admonished. She turned to March. “And you call yourself practical?” Her lips curved in an involuntary smile. “Your punishment for your profligacy is to assist me in arranging its results,” she said, her voice still filled with laughter. “Goodness, we have enough here to stock our own flower cart.” Brandishing a serviceable pair of scissors, she handed March a like instrument. She frowned. “I think the best plan of attack would be to sort them by color. Blues here, pinks and lavenders there, and reds and golds in that corner.”

“I am beginning to regret my open-handedness already,” replied the earl with a sigh. “However, I shall do your bidding, madam. What shade would you call this?” he asked, holding up a newly budded iris. “It is not blue, but I would not call it purple, either.”

Alison studied him covertly. The unsettling difference in him she had noted earlier seemed to have disappeared. His air was easy and amiable—even a little flirtatious, she noted with a disturbing little flutter in the pit of her stomach.

“With the purples, I think,” she replied, striving to keep her voice calm.

With much laughter and badinage, they completed the sorting and Alison began filling the bowls and vases provided by Masters. March stood by, observing, loud in his praise of Alison’s skill.

“We shall have the place looking like a May bower,” he declared. “Aunt Edith will be charging admission to the crowds clamoring to see springtime blossoming in Royal Crescent.”

“You may very well be right,” retorted Alison. “And I hereby appoint you tour guide.”

“I shall be happy to oblige. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, if you will look to your right you will see the largest night-blooming purple fuzzflower in captivity, brought to this sceptered isle by, er, pirates, exhibiting a courage and daring beyond belief so that we might enjoy its beauty and fragrance in the comfort and security of this noble home. And in the library, note the spotted gloriflorabunchus, which legend tells us ...” “

Here, the earl ran out of breath, and Alison paused in her labors to applaud his effort.

“I sincerely hope that you have taken your seat in the House of Lords,” she said, all the warmth of a smiling summer in her eyes, “It would be a shame to deprive a needful nation of your eloquence.”

March seemed to catch his breath as he looked back at her. His smile, when it finally came, was forced and strained. It had happened again, Alison realized with a pang. The film of ice had returned to transform March’s tawny gaze to the color of dead leaves. When he spoke, however, his voice was light.

“Of course I have. It is my duty, after all.”

“Ah yes,” said Alison softly. “Your duty.”

“I was thinking, however,” continued March, still in that inconsequential tone, “of joining the circus, for I believe the two careers are not mutually exclusive. Here, let me help you with that.”

He reached to relieve Alison of the heavy bowl she had finished filling with primroses and daffodils, and set it on another table, ready to be carried upstairs. When she drew another container toward her, he moved nearer, handing blossoms to her as she pointed to them.

“Have you any idea where all these will be placed?” he asked idly.

Alison forced a laugh. “Actually, no. Lady Edith always keeps a full complement of freshly cut blooms around the house, and what we are to do with an additional hothouseful is something of a puzzle. However,” she concluded easily, “my father always used to say there is no such thing as too much beauty in a home, so I’m sure we shall find a place for them.”

March turned to her, and the expression in his eyes puzzled her.

“You loved your father.” It
was more of a question than a statement, and Alison lifted her brows.

“Of course.  I—I would have felt a great affection for him even if he were not my father and I had known him only as the vicar of Ridstowe. He was an eminently lovable man.”

“I see.” In an almost savage gesture, March drew another pile of flowers toward him, knocking several of them from the table. With a muttered curse, he attempted to catch them against his body, only to find Alison caught against him as she attempted the same thing.

The flowers fell to the floor, forgotten, as March brought his hands to Alison’s shoulders. His gaze was hot and golden as it sank into hers, and an unthinking response flowered from deep within her. Without preamble, his mouth came down on hers, hard and urgent and demanding. Alison met his kiss with a fierce acceptance that shocked her. Her lips opened willingly for him, inviting him to plunder at will. When his hands slid down her back, pressing her along the length of him, she arched against him, crying out in her need and raising her arms to pull him even closer. His mouth left hers to press searing kisses on her cheeks, her jaw, and along the line of her throat, leaving a running heat in their wake. Mindlessly, her hands twisted in his hair, and she threw her head back, exulting in the feel of his lips against the pulse that pounded in her throat. She was filled with terrifying emotions she had never known she could experience and she thought she would choke with wanting him.