Argent (Hundred Days Series Book 3) (2 page)

              Laughing and clucking his tongue, John's long face was disapproval at his brows and amusement on his lips. “Villiers is an old name; high in the heel, Reed. And they’re tolerant of Americans, God bless them. Lord and Lady Jersey are good people to rub elbows with.”

              Exhaling, Spencer rested arms atop the wall, unwilling to have the argument with John about Sarah Villiers' brand of influence. Her snobbishness, her lovers. John and Laurel were looking to move up the social ladder, and there was no arguing that the Jerseys were a necessary rung.

He wouldn’t argue over it, not tonight. Tense, frustrated, he was not in a mood for their usual banter. He wanted a silent moment to relish lips on his, perfume which still clung to his shirt.

              Perceptive for being so foxed, John didn’t press the matter and instead backed up a few steps, weaving on long legs. “If you see her, send her to me directly?”

              “How’s that, now?”

John shook his head. “My cousin, Mrs. Rowan?”

“Masquerade?” Spencer held out his hands and glanced around. Unlike John, most guests were following the rules.

              “Right. Dammit. Um...” John made a shape with his hands that could have been mistaken for water boiling. It was nothing Spencer recognized as descriptive of a woman. “About so tall. Black and white affair and a winged sort of mask. Has a flower on it, if I recall.”

              Spencer froze. His
body
froze. His lungs stopped and he turned his head without meaning to, his eyes boring into the darkness where his lady had disappeared.

              John, mistaking his silence for dismissal, backed a few steps further away. “Enjoy yourself, Reed. See you back inside.”

              He raised a hand in half salute, still peering into the darkness.
John’s cousin
. Guilt, shame, dismissal; he waited for each in turn, but they didn’t come.

              Alone again, Spencer pulled the glove from his pocket and buried his face in its cool satin, inhaling her scent. “Mrs. Rowan,” he whispered into the darkness. A voice whispered back, for him to put her away, to leave it alone. It insisted that their moment was over, its fleeting magic something he couldn’t recapture.

A pointless argument. She was a mystery now, a puzzle to be solved. Spencer knew himself too well to believe they were truly done.

CHAPTER TWO

Oakvale, the Reed Estate -- Derbyshire

              Two days later found him less convinced of going out into company in order to find her. There were no masks for protection at Oakvale, and the calling cards were never-ending. In the bustle of activity from waking to sleeping, Spencer began to convince himself that perhaps his garden encounter could never be more than a memory.

Few admirers were deterred by the twenty-five-mile journey from London to Oakvale. He’d muddled through tea with Lady Frances Webster, endured supper with the Duke of Cumberland, and ground away back teeth tolerating Lady Jemma’s roving hands and stifling perfume with his virtue intact. The social calls showed no sign of stopping, and nowhere seemed far enough away to escape.

When had he become such a solitary creature? His frustration was compounded by a doubt which at first had tinged the edges of his confidence, but then had taken root, convincing him that the whole Mrs. Rowan affair was a fool’s errand. Against his better judgement, he’d retreated to his study under a black cloud, secure in the knowledge that his brother Bennet would not leave him unmolested for long. He could confess himself to someone who would offer no quarter.

Finishing his tale, Spencer settled deeper into a leather wing-back chair and rested his boot on the clean white hearth, scowling at his brother's obnoxious grin. “It isn't amusing, Bennet.”

              “It is, actually.” Bennet leaned forward, bottle in hand, and replaced the whiskey in Spencer's abandoned glass. “Poor Reed. Famous in two countries, hounded by beautiful women. What a struggle.”

              “It's not amusing,” he repeated, scrubbing hands over his face. “I nearly plowed my best friend's kin. In his garden.”

              “But you’d have taken her without reservation, had she been a stranger? Hair splitting.” Bennet's handsome features bent into a scowl, a perfect imitation of their father's, and he waved a hand. “I know you enjoy torturing yourself over everything, but it sounds as though you had some help.”

              He had. Her hands inside his coat, that look in her eyes haunting him for days now. Spencer groaned, sinking deeper in the chair. “You’re muddying the water.”

              “Stop being such a baby,” snapped Bennet, draining his tumbler. “Just go and speak with her.”

              “About what? Waking up in a sweat, or the poor fit of my breeches when she comes to mind? Which is more appropriate conversation?”

              It was a genuine question. John had sent an invitation every day, and he was running out of reasons to decline. What would he say to her? Had she puzzled him out? Could they sit stiff-backed across the table from one another and make mindless conversation?

              Bennet shrugged, propping up his boots and folding his hands, a posture that signaled return fire. “How true and straight your infantry marches. How many medals you have.” He winked. “The size of your
artillery
.”

              “Stop speaking, Bennet.”

              Bennet shook his fist. “Just go to John's, see her. This is beyond ridiculous. See what happens, what she says. So you'll have to press some hands and suffer adulation.” He snorted and took a long draw from the bottle. “You'll manage.”

              Spencer admitted that, despite fifteen years between them, his younger brother was sometimes very wise. Admitted it
silently
, of course. Draining his own glass, he crossed his arms. “Fine. I shall go. But not because you’ve convinced me. I lent John a saddle and I’d like to retrieve it.”

              Bennet’s grin was victorious. “That's more like it. Stick to the stables, and stay clear of the garden.”

*              *              *

              Alix stretched beneath her favorite ivory quilt, raking a fingernail over its red and coral roses, blinking up at the canopy. It was something from home to make her comfortable in England, though she wasn’t exactly eaten up with homesickness just now.

She pressed fingers to her lips, smiling, and stretched farther. Her handsome stranger had occupied every waking moment since the ball. At first she thought he must be an acquaintance, someone to whom John had already introduced her. Surely no
stranger
would touch another with such familiarity, would be so bold. How wrong she’d been. She wasn't well connected to many people in England, certainly none so tall, so quick with a heart-stopping grin, with dark hair as thick and crisp as it looked. Not any man she could call to mind.

She closed her eyes and drew him up in her mind. His eyes might have been green or gray; in the ballroom she’d had no question of their color, but garden shadows and his mask’s border had muddied her recollection and made them a shade deeper. Artists hands, or a sculptor; his long fingers had learned her rather than simple touching, explored with a roughness that had made her wonder at a gentleman with a laborer’s hands.

              It had been on her lips more than once, to question John and try to discover the man's identity, but she had resisted. Sighing, Alix wriggled against her pillows. She didn't
want
to know, not really. That would spoil the mystery, and mystery was all she had now.

So, what if they met again? That question had plagued her too, and she knew the answer. There would be no carrying on as they had at the masquerade. It had been a single moment, magical and impulsive, and
over
. She beat a dimple into her hapless pillow and wriggled onto her side.

Damn John for interrupting
.

              Making love with a rogue in a garden's inky depths. It only existed in the horrid novels ladies hid beneath the cushions until they were alone. It had been unlike anything she’d done before, and she had been thrilled to come so close, the most fun she'd had in thirty-two years. After, she had expected shame to intrude, some embarrassment at what she’d been willing to do. It never came; her only remorse was over being interrupted.

She yawned.
John, you bastard
.

              No matter how much she worked up her nerve, something always spoiled the fun. The horse race from Parson’s Green to the bridge, or the time she’d smuggled French brandy into the house, or even the simple act of engaging the native women on a scouting trip back in America. Some prying eye, some wagging tongue, or some crease-faced goodwife was always there to clear their throat or whisper damning gossip to Paulina.

              She recalled the sailing trip and shifted uncomfortably against the mattress, pulling her quilt to her chin.
Just to see the fleet come in
, she had lied to Paulina, with her scant savings sewn into the lining of her dress. Had her sister-in-law already known she intended to elope with Edward? It wouldn’t have surprised her to find that Paulina’s father, Silas, had had her followed by his men, had been watching and digging.

Her face burned at the memory of being escorted through the crowd at the docks, Edward shouting behind her that he loved her, and that she did not have to go. Alix rubbed a fist, smearing tears over tired eyes. She should have stayed on the ship with Edward, should have found the spine to fight Silas’s and Paulina’s threats. It was simple to blame tattling neighbors or a disapproving parson, but was she really the one at fault? When had she ever had the courage to run and keep running until she outpaced them?

Shifting to get comfortable, Alix decided that she was too tired and too resigned to answer the question.

              She should count her luck. It was only their first week in England. She had already laid money on an investment and made a very lasting memory. With a whole spring and then summer ahead, who knew what else could happen?

CHAPTER THREE

Broadmoore, The Hastings estate -- Derbyshire

              Spencer hadn't appreciated how much he hated John’s house until his last deployment through Europe. As ruins went, the house would be an excellent place to visit: a wide lawn, a long pool framed by the boughs of newly green oaks. But it wasn’t a ruin, unfortunately. It was a functioning house and grounds, despite having falling into disrepair a century before. Broadmoore Abbey's crumbling skeleton was a fine landmark but a derelict residence. The house was drafty, dripping, and generally uncomfortable. Its cavernous fireplaces and furnishings would have been in vogue for the last Tudor king. The whole mess had been saddled to John by a father set on keeping tight reins on his heir, the same man who had reputedly sent his own sister running for the colonies, never to return.

              In an accident of agreeable circumstances, that sister’s children, Chas Paton and his sister Alexandra, were eager to see their homeland. John was anxious for the financial opportunity they offered, happy to make his kin welcome. Chas Paton had managed his family's shipping business to a peak of success and had money -- coin John could use to dig himself out from under Broadmoore. In turn, John had connections that the Patons were eager to make use of.             

              Spencer sighed and stretched his legs farther into the carriage's foot well, longing to be home. Whatever good the army had brought him, it had also meant long nights in wind and rain with thin blankets and worse rations. He was done with all that; he wanted a roaring fire, a sturdy chair, and the nearly endless parade of good food from his own Oakvale kitchens.

John was a friend, though, and he would tolerate Broadmoore for the company. Intriguing company now, he amended. Mrs. Rowan would be there, too. After Bennet’s prodding, he’d found renewed courage, so why was he struggling now with seeing her?

Because he didn't want to meet her, to know her. The
real
her. He wanted to preserve quite possibly his only impulsive decision outside of a battlefield. Her voice wouldn't be as deep and rich as he'd imagined. There would be a whining point to the sound of her words. She would be too well read to be talked to or so vacuous as to be limited to parasols and ribbons.

Spencer laughed at himself, looking out the window at his waiting hosts. Age had made him impatient, rigid. Bored. Something in Mrs. Rowan's eyes, a clever playfulness when he had taken her hand, scolded that he was wrong to worry. Spencer rejected his fear and brushed away a disappointment which promised that reality could never equal his imagination.

              The carriage lurched to a stop. Spencer bounded down, planted his hat back on his head and raised a hand to John and Laurel where they waited at the yard's edge.

              He started forward, girding himself.
Once more into the breach.

*              *              *

Seated before a frightened little desk in the small parlor, Alix hunched and braced elbows as she wrote, and tried ignoring an aching back and jostling surface in equal measure. The desk’s joints creaked in protest each time she dipped her quill. It was impossible to give her correspondence the attention it deserved while not panicking under the belief her work surface would collapse and summon the very people she’d been avoiding. The last thing she needed was Paulina catching on to her scheme.

Second to last was Chas. At the thought of his name she stabbed the quill and tapped it with violence, earning a cry from the ancient furniture. Her brother. Her own brother, the traitor. It was enough to swallow, that he’d married into a family bearing them so much ill will, allowed his wife and father-in-law dominion over his person and business. Subjecting her to it…

She paused, drew a breath and held it, quill suspended long enough that a drop of ink fell onto her letter. She didn’t bother blotting up the stain, determined for the first time in years to follow her thoughts on Chas. There were no memories of him during their father’s final years; why had she expected more afterward? Because she had told herself then, as much as before and a long while after, that he would grow up. Without Father to take the lead, Chas would become a man, set Paulina in her place, and break Silas’s grip.

Evidence to the contrary had begun with a small thing; Chas’s promise to hold her money from the sale of their family home. Just, he had promised, until she and Mister Meacham could settle what to do with it.

Emily Aldridge’s body had been found washed up on the river bank just a few weeks later. Alix recalled it well, the tragedy coming so close on the heels of her own father’s death. The pretty young thing of eighteen had gone missing on a walk back from town, and groups of men had gone out each day from sun up to sunset looking for her. It was agreed that an animal must have gotten her, a wolf or coyote.

Alix shivered and drew her shawl tighter. Doctor McCraddock’s examination had said otherwise. Poor Emily had been beaten, clubbed to death. Though the town agreed that no one inside its borders could be capable of such a heinous crime, doors were bolted at night and no lady walked anywhere alone. Some families didn’t allow their daughters out of doors. Alix recalled how close in age she’d been to Emily, three or four years, and how she had wondered to Chas through his newspaper that she’d walked to town often, even at dusk, and never worried.

And then it had all become a horrible memory, until months later when she had asked Chas to have her money transferred to Mister Meacham. Weak agreement had escalated to refusal and then an eruption concluding with Chas’s admission that he’d been forced to give her three thousand dollars to Silas Van der Verre.

Why? Why had he given
that man
money which was rightly hers? Alix rested her quill in the inkwell and massaged a drumming temple. She’d been so naïve in those days. A wide bruise had marked the length of Chas’s jaw, running a spectrum from plum to rust and finally to a slow-fading yellow, a shape remarkably like those found on Emily. Scratches: he had tried to conceal them by the height of an over-starched cravat. She had accepted his story of a dull razor. Screaming matches had rattled her door from Chas’s bedchamber at night, Paulina reaching an octave so piercing that it had torn them in half and left her brother in a separate bedroom for good.

Silas’s hasty replacement of a once-favorite walking stick.

Emily’s bloated belly, filled more with child than river water.

If she had known, had allowed herself to believe, she would have been too afraid to ever defy one of Silas’s edicts. She had been bright and colorful, brave in those days; Alix resolved once more that her taste of freedom would be Silas’s downfall, not her own. She had tasted a life without fear.

She would have it again.

Determined, Alix claimed the only weapon available: her quill. Tapping it off and willing the sad desk to be as strong as she was, she signed yet another offer for shares of Van der Vere Shipping, an offer at a price too high to be ignored.