Argent (Hundred Days Series Book 3) (6 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

              If Laurel hadn't told him that the sound from upstairs was a person, Spencer would have believed his hounds had gotten inside the house. Another round of barking drew Laurel up beside him as they shuffled upstairs. Chas, coming down, paused and shook his head. “Not the worst attack I've ever seen, but she's not fit to go out.”

              “Should we send for a physician or...” Laurel held out her hands.

              “Nothing to be done. Rest, hot tea, an open window.” Chas shrugged. “Eventually it passes. Just wish I knew what brought it on in the first place.”

              A flat drone to Chas’s concern pricked at Spencer, who narrowed his eyes and studied the other man. For what, he couldn’t quite say.

              “I should stay in with her,” insisted Laurel, gathering her skirts.

              Seeing his first opportunity for solitary reconnaissance, Spencer had no intention of relinquishing it. He caught Laurel’s arm. “It will do you no good, as Mister Paton has said. The fit must run its course.” He pressed her shoulder. “Go; I'm already obliged to stay in. Someone will be at home, should Mrs. Rowan need anything. Ill as she is, she can hardly want company.”

             
If she was ill
. He was growing less convinced by the day that Alexandra was as frail as everyone claimed, despite the ragged hacking upstairs. Her cryptic remark in his carriage tickled at a suspicion, stoking a desire to unravel the mystery that was Alexandra Rowan.

              Tension melted from Laurel's shoulders and Chas, for his part, kept the same weary expression as they went down together.

              Spencer stationed himself in the front hall long enough that he was useful to Laurel, and to see everyone packed up and bustled out. After, he stood in the quiet shadows a moment, appreciating the complete silence. He couldn’t help but notice an end to the coughing above, and wondered that it coincided so perfectly with everyone’s leaving.

              For now, he would listen and wait. Nothing in his study required immediate attention, despite what he'd told the others. He passed it by, opting instead for his favorite room, the library. Settling into a deep brown leather chair, Spencer tucked himself into a corner between two high windows where he closed his eyes and soaked in mid-morning sun.

He missed the army, the sharp sounds of drill, the synchronized volley of musket fire. He longed, sometimes, for the cheers and shouts of his men around their tents in the evening. The cacophony of London traffic with its stiff clothes and stiffer manners was hardly a substitute, and he made do instead with comfortable silence.

              A creaking door figured briefly into his quiet moment. Household staff came and went throughout the day, not an event to break his respite.

When a feminine sigh reached his ear, he bothered cracking an eye. Alexandra, swathed in a flattering yardage of sky blue silk, raked book spines with a knuckle. She perused the shelves across the room in silence, oblivious to his presence.

              She looked hale and whole for a woman bedridden an hour ago. Slouching deeper in his seat, Spencer rested a cheek to his fist and watched her. She was softer today, her hair piled in a mound that was calculated to tempt a man’s hand. Light silk fell from a high-cut bodice, catching the fullness of her hips swaying with each step. Slender fingers, fingers whose touch he’d recalled in private moments, pulled down a book, cradled and inspected it, then traded it for another. He drank in her movements until she paused for a narrow red canvas tome that met her approval.

She slid it atop a long oak table dividing the shelves from the rest of the library and tossed a crisp white apron down beside it. She snapped the chair forward, bumping the table in her eagerness, and pried back the cover.

              Reaching the peak of self-torment, Spencer cleared his throat.

              Her chair rocked, pages fanned and she gasped. Certain she’d go straight over backwards, he started up to catch her.

              Recovering before he could close the distance, she pressed a hand to her chest, panting.

              “Mrs. Rowan.”

              Her eyes narrowed. “Were you going to say anything?”

              He chuckled, caught. “Were you?”

              She fixed him with a stare that he was only too happy returning. For a breath, there was something familiar deep in her gaze, a glimmer of the challenge she’d given him at the masquerade. Then it banked, cooling the blue of her gaze even as he willed it to stay.

              Alexandra ducked her head, studying the tabletop. “I thought everyone had gone out,” she muttered.

              Everyone, including him. Spencer took her point, hating a sting in his chest. “Everyone who wished to, has. I stayed behind because I have business to attend to, and because Lady Hastings was concerned about your
health
.” His last word hung between them in the library's silence.              

Shifting in her chair, she looked away and then got up. “I should be upstairs resting.”

              She snatched her apron, flinging something from its pocket which pelted against the floor. It struck with a sharp tinkling of glass and rolled to him over polished wood as though drawn by his curiosity.

              She rushed him, but he’d already pinched up a long glass vial half filled with rust tinted powder. He shook its contents, squinting to identify the tiny grains. Holding it up to her wide eyes, he waved the bottle. “What is this?”

              She swallowed, eyes fixed on her lost property, and kept silent.

              “Hm.” Spencer pulled the chipped cork from its neck and waved the vial under his nose. An itch, first along the roof of his mouth and then in his throat. Burning followed, high in his nose. Coughs wracked his chest and Spencer plugged the bottle before more could escape. Burying his face in his sleeve, he dodged her snatching fingers, tucking the prize into his pocket. He patted his aching breast.

“You could have warned me when I removed the cork,” he panted.

She smiled, and for a moment he recognized her. It was a genuine smile, unguarded, and he decided it had been worth damaging his lungs.

“I
could
have,” she admitted, unrepentant.

He rallied, not willing to give her the upper hand. “Coughing fits? Seems your affliction is more
culinary
than chronic.”

She exhaled, a sound resigned to being caught. “Paulina gave me the idea, if you can believe it. Not directly, of course, but she’s always fiddling with her herbs and tonics.”

“Hm.” He could
not
believe it, struggled believing Mrs. Paton had time for anything beyond feasting upon her husband’s sanity.

              “Are you going to tell anyone?” Her eyes narrowed; he was being reconnoitered.

              He tried sounding severe. “Lady Hastings was
very
worried about you.”

              She stiffened. “You're enough acquainted with my brother and his wife by now to grasp why I’d resort to subterfuge for a moment’s peace.”

              Manufacturing a seemingly genuine illness was not a moment's peace in his book. It was, however, an awful lot of trouble to go through for a few hours alone. “You are not of an age where you can demand it?”

              She flushed. “I am not in a position to demand it.” She didn’t elaborate, and he didn’t press her. Instead, he added one more question to his ever-growing list.

Alix looked him over again, worrying her lower lip. “Will you keep my secret or no?”

She had given him fantastic leverage and he seized the opportunity. “On one condition.”

              Her eyes widened.

              Gathering his courage, he blurted, “Spend the afternoon with me.”

              A long glance over her shoulder was telling as any words. She wanted to say yes despite a hunted look. He was certain she would agree if he could promise her the peace she sought.

              “An hour out, an hour back. Time to appreciate the view and grow weary of your brother’s wife. They won't return until three, at least.”

              An ounce of tension drained from Alexandra. He caught the slightest drop to her shoulders. “Blackmail, then?” Her smile was hesitant, teasing, skipping his heart. “If that's your game, then I suppose I have no choice but to play along.”

              He was closing the distance between them before he realized it, eager for every minute in her company. “What do you do for enjoyment?”

              She shrugged, backing away a step. “Read.”

              He rolled his eyes. “What do you do for enjoyment when
Mrs. Paton
is absent?”

              She laughed. “
Read
. Walk the pasture. I'm fair enough at the piano.”

              After, he could not say why he’d done it. Insanity, perhaps. He’d been a mess of frayed nerves for days. At the prospect of an afternoon with Alexandra, he was lost. Fumbling inside his coat, he grasped the familiar length of satin and held up the glove for her disbelieving eyes. “What
else
do you enjoy?”

              He’d rehearsed this moment a hundred times, and the drawn expression on her face was not what he’d imagined. He had been overeager, lacking finesse ahead of an awkward segue; he appreciated it too late.

              She blanched and backed away in earnest, stumbling against the table. “I … I misunderstood your offer.” She swallowed and fumbled a retreat. “And I think you've misunderstood me. That night was --”

              “Wait!” He grabbed her wrist and halted her escape. “Just your company today. I did not mean to imply more. Only that I'm certain you amuse yourself with something besides reading.” He held out the glove for her anxious fingers.

              She searched him with a tight expression, and Spencer had the sense of being weighed.

              Finally, she tucked the glove into her apron without meeting his eyes. “I'm a fair opponent at cards. I play billiards, though I'm not much of a challenge. I ride but not in company. Side saddle on a horse is like hanging under a carriage to get somewhere; no enjoyment. I like good brandy, good chocolate.” She shrugged. Her shoulders were tense, eyes guarded, but she wasn’t leaving and for now that was enough.

              He clapped hands together, rubbing eagerly at the progress they were making and then swept an arm toward the door. “Let's begin with cards and follow with brandy.” He held his breath and waited for her protest.

              Instead she perked up, and pressed an exaggerated hand to her mouth. “Lord Reed, it's barely noon.”

              He nodded, heart thrumming faster. “Already halfway through the day. We have some catching up to do.”

*              *              *

              Alexandra couldn't bring herself to look directly at Spencer, who was setting out their tumblers on a sideboard. All along
he
had been her masked stranger. And
he'd
known it. A burn in her cheeks doubled while the realization sank in. She still couldn't reconcile that the broad fingers unstoppering the brandy had also tangled in her hair, brushed her waist. Lips cocked up now in a small smile had kissed her own. More than embarrassment, she suffered another sharp pang of disappointment at John’s poor timing.

              Spencer set the glasses between them atop a round card table easily meant for three times as many players. Its nicked, scuffed, tawny wood said it frequently saw such a crowd. She claimed her brandy, swirled it and inhaled. It’s warm, sweet aroma filled her nose, adding to her thrill at being admitted to Spencer's inner sanctum. The room was obviously intended for himself and masculine company; it was bold and tasteful, shadowed by navy velvet drapes. Tan leather and dark wood carried the theme. A billiard table imposing enough that the room might have been built around it occupied the room’s far side. Alix could practically feel heat from a white marble firebox, hear raucous laughter of gathered men, their camaraderie scented with sweet tobacco and citrus gin. Her heart beat a pace faster.

              Spencer settled across from her, palmed their deck of cards, and held it out.

              “No,” she laughed, splaying her hands. “My fingers are too short. You'll end up with creased cards and a mess.” Grace and dexterity had never figured among her better qualities.

              “Fair enough.” He nodded and began to deal. She watched him while he was absorbed in the process, his stern left brow furrowed to mimic the concentrated lift of his mouth.

              “Do you know,” he asked, still counting out their hands, “that I am always aware of your watching me?”

She snapped her gaze to the tabletop, winning a lusty chuckle.

              Spencer hadn’t shown himself to be anything but a gentleman during their time together, but they were crossing lines now at full sail. His expectations for how their day would conclude might not be as innocent as she’d envisioned. Gathering her cards, she cleared her throat. “Lord Reed, what happened in the garden --”