Anne Barbour (26 page)

“Never mind about that,” cried Jack, shrugging with impatience. “I want to know about Marchford. What was he doing there, and why did he scoop you up in such a fashion?” He stopped suddenly. “Unmasked? What do you mean, unmasked?”

“Just what I said, Jack. His lordship has known for some time that I am—was—Lissa Reynard.”

Alison watched with detached interest as Jack digested this piece of news. “But you are still here,” he said in blank bewilderment. “Did he not—?”

“Punish me? No. We have come to ... an agreement.” She lifted a hand against the questions she could see writhing on his lips. “And that is all I propose to say on the matter. I am still in Lady Edith’s employ, where I shall probably stay for some time to come.”

Slowly, Jack’s narrow gaze made the transition from puzzlement, to comprehension, to alarm. Alison smiled unpleasantly. “I see you have come to the nub of the situation, Jack. You no longer have any hold over me. It is with great pleasure that I must insist you leave this house, now, and do not return.”

“But, Alison—you promised! What am I to do?”

“I promised nothing. I gave in to your coercion, and now I am no longer obliged to do so. For Beth’s sake, my offer of a loan still stands, but that is as far as I am prepared to go. I advise you to take my hundred pounds and leave the country.” She rose, preparing to usher him from the room. Instead, Jack sprang to face her, grasping her by the shoulders.

“Don’t you understand, you stupid little—?” He drew a deep breath. “Alison, I must have that money. My life won’t be worth a tinker’s damn if I don’t pony up. You’ve got to help me!”

Alison disengaged herself from Jack’s grip. “I have already offered to help you, Jack,” she said coldly. “If you choose not to avail yourself of my offer, that is your own doing. Frankly, any sympathy I might have had for your plight dissolved quite some time ago. Now, will you leave, or must I summon a footman to assist you in your departure?”

For an instant, Jack did not move, and Alison knew a moment of alarm at the ugliness that flared in his pale gaze. Then, he flung her away from him and stepped back, his face whiter than his modish shirtpoints. His eyes glittered malevolently.

“No,” he said in a choked whisper. “You need not call anyone. I will leave, and may God damn you to hell, Alison Fox!”

He whirled and lurched unsteadily through the door. Numb with shock, Alison moved toward the door herself, feeling a need to assure herself that he was really departing.

“Why, Mr. Crawford, I did not know you had come to visit!”

Alison listened in horror to Meg’s laughing welcome. She hurried into the corridor to see Meg crossing the floor to intercept Jack. For one terrifying moment, Alison thought he would strike the girl in his mindless rage, but to her astonishment, he halted, his contorted features transforming themselves instantly into a charming smile.

“Lady Meg! You are up and about. I expected to be told you were still abed with the collywobbles, but I see the roses have returned to your cheeks. This is good news, indeed!”

To Alison’s annoyance, Meg’s roses deepened perceptibly as she dropped a self-conscious curtsy to Jack.

“Yes, I am much better, thank you, Mr. Crawford. I am so glad you are here, for I wanted to thank you for coming to my rescue yesterday.”

“It was my pleasure.” Jack’s leg came forward in a sweeping bow. “Rescuing damsels in distress is my specialty.”

Meg giggled adorably. “But you are not leaving? Did Alison offer you tea?”

“Mr. Crawford has an engagement,” interrupted Alison tersely. “He must be on his way.”

Meg’s face fell. “Oh, that is too bad. But perhaps you will return another time?”

Before Jack could respond to this artless invitation, Alison put a hand on his arm and, pinching it meaningfully, urged him down the stairs and out of the house. Jack turned to wave laughingly at Meg. “Yes, indeed—another time!”

“Really, Alison,” said Meg after he had left, “you were almost rude to Mr. Crawford!”

“He had already informed me he was in a hurry. He left flowers for you,” Alison added reluctantly. She gestured to the drawing room.

“Ooh!” Meg hurried away, returning in a moment with the blossoms in her arms. “How very thoughtful of him, to be sure. I have never received flowers from a gentleman before.”

And you still have not,
breathed Alison to herself. Meg continued to burble on, unheeding. “I expect he will return soon, don’t you?”

“I rather think not. Mr. Crawford informed me he has many matters demanding his attention just now.”

Meg merely smiled knowingly and skipped down the stairs. Alison hurried away to inform Masters that under no circumstances was Jack Crawford to be admitted again to the house.

* * * *

As Jack strode away from Royal Crescent toward his lodgings with Giles Morganton in the Paragon Buildings, he was in something of a taking. Giles was not going to be pleased with the events that had just taken place. In fact, he dreaded facing Giles, and as he walked along George Street, his pace slowed. Thus, it was perhaps not surprising that the gentleman standing in a window in York House noted Mr. Crawford dawdling in front of the hostelry.

A few moments later, Jack’s attention was claimed by a voice behind him, and turning, he beheld the Earl of March-ford. He knew a moment’s panic and was obliged to suppress a strong desire to take himself elsewhere with all possible speed, but the earl’s voice held only cordiality as he invited Jack to join him in a heavy wet. Every instinct urged him to refuse, but his reluctance to return to his abode overcame his unease, and it was with a reasonable show of nonchalance that he followed the earl into the dark interior of the York House taproom. The few customers ensconced in the inn’s comfortable chairs did not lift their heads as the two men passed.

Jack settled warily into a seat opposite the earl. Neither man spoke until two sweating tankards of ale had been set before them.

“I understand you’ll be leaving Bath soon, Mr. Crawford,” said March in his blandest voice.

“What? Leaving Bath? Well, I don’t know—I hadn’t planned ...”

“I’d start planning, if I were you.” The blandness had left March’s tone, and Jack sat up very straight. “Your presence in this city,” continued the earl, and in his quiet voice Jack heard death, “seems extremely detrimental to the well-being of a friend of mine, and I do not want to see her disturbed any further.”

Jack took refuge in bluster. “I can’t think what you are talking about,” he said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Nor do I intend to be dictated to.”

“Then you are very unwise,” replied March silkily. His demeanor changed abruptly. “Crawford, you are a toad, and I will not have you trouble Alison Fox’s peace of mind for so much as another instant. If you are not out of Bath by tomorrow evening, several critical portions of your anatomy will come in for severe disrepair. Do I make myself clear?”

Jack, not to put too fine a point on it, simply sat back in his chair and goggled.

“B-but, I thought. I mean—I would think you’d be busy destroying Alison Fox, now that you’ve found out she’s really—”

“My relationship with Miss Fox is none of your concern,” March interrupted coldly. “I asked if I had made myself clear, and since you have not answered, perhaps I should be more plain.”

With a swift motion, he reached across the table and, grasping Jack’s cravat, lifted him out of his chair. He twisted his fist into Jack’s throat, and the young man’s face crumpled like a pricked balloon.

“Urk!”
he uttered.
“Gtchchch!”
He sank back into his chair, gasping as March released him with a contemptuous shake. His eyes bulged, froglike, as he put a hand to his throat. “Y-yes,” he half sobbed. “Yes, you have m-made yourself clear.”

“Good.” Rising, March nodded pleasantly. “In that case, I shall bid you good afternoon.” In the next moment, he was gone, leaving Jack to stare after him, his expression a blend of fear and hatred.

Chapter 20

March stood in the center of his sitting room at York House gazing pensively at the fireplace. The interview with Jack Crawford had provided him with some degree of satisfaction, though not as much, he reflected with fingers bunched into fists, as if he had ground Crawford’s face into the wooden table and then knocked him to the floor.

The next moment he shrugged. What right had he to punish Crawford, when the snake had done no more damage to Alison Fox than he himself had accomplished. His mouth twisted in an ironic smile. Of course, his own motives had been pure, so that made everything all right, did it not?

He flung himself into a chair. Alison had forgiven him—so she said—but that did not relieve his conscience, or the ache that continued to grow in him at the knowledge that he loved a woman he could never have. He would be very fortunate if she would so much as allow him to be her friend. God, he was coming to hate that word.

What was she doing now? he wondered idly. Something for somebody else, he’d wager. Making arrangements for Aunt Edith’s dinner party, or accompanying Meg on a shopping trip. He pictured her in bonnet and pelisse, swinging through the streets of Bath, her cheeks flushed and those great blue eyes sparkling with enjoyment. Lord, would he ever get over wanting her? He shook his head. It was like wondering if he would get over needing to breathe.

He toyed briefly with the idea of strolling to the Pump Room later in the day in the hope of encountering her. No. He had promised to stay out of her way. He would just have to contain himself until Thursday evening. She would undoubtedly be fully occupied at the famous dinner party in ensuring the comfort and pleasure of his aunt’s guests, but if he was lucky, and very persistent, he might be able to take her away from her duties for a few moments. A few moments that would have to see him through the rest of his life.

Thursday seemed a long way off.

As it happened, Alison was engaged in a somewhat less enjoyable task than shopping. She was seated at the dining parlor table with Mrs. Hopgood, Lady Edith’s plump, capable housekeeper. Glancing for a last time over the menu the two had devised, she rose and stretched. “Well, I believe that does it. The house looks beautiful, Mrs. H. You’ve had the staff busy, and it shows. My, if the chandelier lustres were polished any higher, they’d blind our guests.”

Mrs. Hopgood straightened, blossoming from the praise, then rose from the table with a murmur of thanks and departed the room.

Alison remained behind for a moment, her thoughts turning to Thursday’s engagement. Try as she might, she pictured one guest in this room above all others. March would, as always, look magnificent in evening dress, and the candlelight would turn his brandy-colored eyes to gold. Would those eyes seek her out? She tried to suppress the idea, for she knew her salvation lay in staying clear of March on Thursday night. Thank God he would be gone soon, she repeated for the hundredth time. Lady Edith would undoubtedly travel to London for his wedding, but Alison was determined not to accompany her.

Another, even more terrible idea occurred to her. Please God, March would not bring his bride on a duty call to his aunt. She did not think she could stand that. She must simply make it her business to avoid March on Thursday night. In fact, it would be better not to speak to him at all before he left.

But she knew she would be unable to follow her own advice. She wanted desperately to see him once more ... to say good-bye to him with her heart.

She wished it were not so long until Thursday.

* * * *

Even a two-day eternity must eventually pass, and after only a year or so, Thursday dawned, clear and sunny and warm. Alison found herself heavily occupied even before breakfast, and just before luncheon she was summoned to fill bowls and containers with flowers delivered moments before.

Meg had offered her assistance in the day’s tasks, but since that young woman’s help consisted mostly of a great deal of bustle with very little accomplished, Alison had encouraged her to go along when friends called to whisk her off to a visit with a friend living in Bailbrook, on the London Road. The party had left some two hours earlier in great good spirits.

Alison glanced down at the blossoms lying on the table in the little service room off the kitchen, and her eyes grew dreamy. She drew her fingers over iris and daffodil, reliving the moment days before when March had swept flowers from that same table and taken her in his arms. Now, shivering anew at the memory of his touch, of the heat of his lips on hers, she pressed the blooms to her cheek. Her body warmed again in an unthinking response and she was forced to take several long breaths to bring herself back to the present. She bent once more to her task, and had just begun working on the huge arrangement to be placed in the entrance hall when quick footsteps in the corridor caught her attention.

“Finster!” she cried as Meg’s maid hurtled into the room. “Whatever are you doing here? Did you not go with Lady Meg when she left for Bailbrook?”

Finster had taken great pains to avoid her since the night she had assisted her mistress in her clandestine attendance at the masquerade ball, so Alison was doubly surprised when Finster ran to her and clutched her sleeve anxiously.

“Yes, I did leave with Lady Meg, but she is still with her friends—or at least—oh, Miss Fox, I’m so afraid something bad is happening to her!”

The maid now had Alison’s undivided attention and she drew her to a nearby chair. “What is it, Hannah?” she asked quickly, using the maid’s first name in an effort to put her at ease. “Tell me.”

“As you know, ma’am, the young ladies and the mamas of two of them left here in two coaches, and at that it was something of a crunch. Well, we’d not got out of town yet—only to Grosvenor Place—when Miss Pargeter declared that the little tea shop we were just passing sold the best damson tarts in the world. So, nothing would do but we must stop. We had no more got into the shop when in walks Mr. Jack Crawford.”

“Jack!” gasped Alison.

“Yes, ma’am, and I know you’re not overly fond of him.”